


Within these endless walls

by Ruiniel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 12 houses of gondolin, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Cousin Incest, Drama, Elder Days, Elf Culture & Customs, Elves, Eventual Romance, F/M, First Age, Gondolin, Gondolindrim, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mental Breakdown, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Requited Unrequited Love, So AU my head is spinning, Tales of the First Age, Temporarily Unrequited Love, The Noldor, The Silmarillion References, The hidden rock, War, elves behaving badly, ondolinde, the hidden city, unapologetically AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2020-12-02 02:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruiniel/pseuds/Ruiniel
Summary: An AU take on the relationship between Idril Celebrindal and the controversial character of Maeglin.My aim with this story? To explore the opposite of the "Maeglin/Idril - unrequited" trope. Please observe: incest, non-canon pairing, and depictions of mental dishevelment later on.---DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended.





	1. Mirror

Maeglin sat upon the cold marble in solitude, his thoughts astray. He was seated on a flight of stairs well away from the daily thrum of the palace, ones seldom used. The recently discovered location allowed for a splendid scenic view of the city and its shimmering white towers, but it also served as a respite during times of strife.

His adoptive city. No, his home now. Nan El-moth had been his birthplace, but the continuous, unrelenting adversity his father had displayed towards the goings of the outside world had inevitably created a longing in his spirit. One both he and his mother had set to fulfill, choosing the path of haste and secrecy. If only he had known what it would lead to. If only he had surmised the lengths one of his kin would go to for revenge on those who disobeyed him.

His gaze absently followed the sun in its struggle across the sky, now laden with gradually approaching silver clouds. Not two days before, his father had come beating upon the doors of Turgon demanding what was his in judgment: his wife and his son, who had fled here. And then before the king his uncle and his entire host, the one they referred to as the Dark Elf unwittingly tried to end the life of his son. The words were still fresh in his mind.

_"Your father commands you. Leave the house of his enemies and the slayers of his kin, or be accursed!"_ Eöl had said, and Maeglin would never forget the look in his father's eyes when his command was spurned. For Maeglin had refused, knowing in his mind his destiny lay here, behind the gates of Turgon. Into the light, not the shadowland of his youth.

Turgon had tried reason, had offered his father a place among his House and kinship. But for his resentment of the Ñoldor and darkness of his character, rather than acquiescing Eöl had chosen death for his blood. And that would have spelled his end, had it not been for the vastness of a mother's love. In his rage, his father hurled a hidden javelin at his son and while the weapon had struck true, its target was not. Aredhel, sister of Turgon and daughter of Fingolfin, was no more.

Maeglin suppressed an unruly sob shaking his slight frame. Visions of his mother in his arms, withering from the poisoned wound swirled before him, threatening to disperse the last remnants of his composure. The young elf closed his eyes tightly against the sudden onslaught of grief. Fair she had been, and courageous to a fault, ultimately renouncing her part of their dream for him. And he did not feel worthy of such, not anymore.

A deeply rooted sense of self-loathing resurfaced. His dark eyes lowered to his lap, where an unsheathed blade was placed over his knees. It gleamed black in the yellow sun. Anguirel was its name, and all that was left to him of his father. Maeglin had stolen it during his flight with his mother from Nan El-moth for lack of a weapon, and now for an unknown reason had taken it with. The smooth metal mirrored his features. Black hair ran straight past his shoulders, and tired inky eyes stared back at him. His father's eyes, or so his mother had said.

He would never forget the ghastly shriek nor the heavy curse his father had wrought. Before his eyes, the one he had known as sire was cast to his doom over the Caragdûr, as punishment for his deed.

_"Here shall you fail of all your hopes..."_

With his dying breath, his father had destroyed every memory of what was good and kind of him. But at that moment Maeglin had felt nothing. It was as if he were watching everything unfold from outside of himself, from a distant tower atop a soaring peak. Yet it all bore down upon him after. Never will the vision disperse from the depths of his mind. His deafening cry, the last sounds he had heard of his father.

_"...here may you yet die the same death as I."_

His sire, the murderer. His mother, payment for his freedom.

_I have_ _lost both of them._

The most conflicting of hurts was for his father, mingled with such powerful resentment it weakened and sheared through him. And then guilt for himself, having been the cause of his mother's untimely demise. His fingers sang lightly over the sword. Sharp it was, enough to cleave elven thread in two. Something of him.

As Maeglin regarded the sword with heavy eyes, he was soon lost in memories of its wielder. Despite his many faults, the Dark Elf had taught him much of life and the goings of the natural world. Such lessons came in waves, but as the young elf became older, so had his curiosity grown. His incessant questions became a burden, and soon his sire would drawl sullen responses or demand his silence, and he would grow terrible and spew vile things to both he and his mother if Maeglin dared challenge him. But the yearning only grew. Then, when his mother had told him of the wondrous hidden city and their kinship to its ruler, his spirit had ceased to know peace. That, added to the painful longing of his mother to see her kin, led them both to attempt their escape.

He did not begrudge coming to this place. Fairer than his untraveled mind had ever imagined, the Stone of Song had opened itself to him in a flurry of wonder. Its gardens brimmed with luscious life and light, and its fountains sang crystals high above its slender towers, standing proud and glimmering in the day's sun. He had been entranced. Past the warm welcome of king Turgon his kin, and the advancement of their crafts, it felt like home. It had cost him life as he knew it and that of his parents, but he regretted nothing. He only regretted-

Vision blurring, he noticed an intrusive, warm droplet marring the cold onyx blade. Maeglin brought his sleeve to his face to clear his eyes of the stubborn wetness, but somehow the action only caused his composure to shatter further.

Soon another drop fell upon the blade, then another. Maeglin lowered his head further, dark strands draping over his shoulders and covering sight of his face.

A shuffle of movement.

Eyes still on the weapon and mind on his troubled heart, the new prince of Gondolin vaguely noticed the whisper of a flowing dress. Was it blue?

She had been ascending the stairs, rather reluctantly. Her hair was spun gold past her waist, her rose pale brow knit in hidden thought. Her lips quivered upon sight of his dark tunic.

But Maeglin had not seen her, had not anticipated any presence at all, and thus had no time to shutter his face. So it was that when he lifted his head, the one approaching stared straight into his most broken gaze for one moment in time, before her cold and startled eyes flickered away from him. She passed him without a word, continuing her ascent.

His cousin, he had been told. Idril was her name. When they first laid eyes on each other at the formal welcoming the king had ordained, Maeglin was met with a steely stare and a stiff countenance. The king's daughter. It surprised him, for he had not seen such fair women folk before, aside from his mother, but that did not count. His surprise waned under the weight of her brow. And Idril regarded him not unlike she did now. She was wary of him, and Maeglin understood her apprehension. After all, here was a stranger suddenly thrown into their midst, an unusual case in his parentage and origin. He, too, would be wary of her in turn. And Maeglin was. His kin looked suspiciously upon him, as if he were there to take. Little did she see that he only wanted to grow. Either way, it was not a given to take a liking to new kin. Maeglin was not much inclined towards her person either if he were to consider it. All of this was as new for him as it was for her, and Maeglin would need time as well. Perhaps they could, as time unfolded, reach a sort of understanding.

But this distraction held little, for soon his thoughts meandered back to his parents, the loss of which Maeglin so keenly felt with nearly every passing moment.

The skies had darkened. Unlike what he had been told by the folk of this realm, the rain did seem to find Gondolin. It now poured wearily upon the gleaming marble of its towers, sang through the leaves of its gardens, and the white streets came to shimmer before him. Under its cadence his mind seemed to disentangle, grief stilled. His eyes became unfocused, and he fell against the murmur of nature.

Dark green. The dress had been dark green.

* * *

The following day was no better. Nor was the next. Thoughts, guilt, longing. Her voice drifting over him like waves in a calming lullaby. The nightmare of his father's howling. His mind dwelling on thoughts of yesteryear, Maeglin crossed the steps in even strides towards the king's study. It was a bright day following the rains, and water sprang joyously from the great fountains in the King's square. Turgon had summoned the recently orphaned elf to him, and Maeglin was eager to hear what his last remaining kin had to impart. He knew the laws now. None who passed through the Gates were to leave the hidden city. He did not want to leave it, but living with the memory of what brought him here was another matter. His dark thought receded as Maeglin marveled at the great trees Glingal and Belthil when he passed them by. These were the very images of the Two Trees of Valinor, once the home of his mother's kin, which he had never seen but for her stories.

Once he reached the doors to his destination the guards on either side drew them open, and Maeglin entered to behold Turgon. Standing by the wide, intricate stained windows, haloed by the midday sun and clad in a tunic of white, the king appeared a great lord indeed in the eyes of young Maeglin. When he turned to face his nephew, his coronet of garnets limned with the movement in reflected beams of shy red.

Maeglin bowed as taught by his mother, when in the shadowed nights of Nan El-moth Aredhel would relay tales of the customs and way of life of his faraway kin. He remembered it all as clear as dewdrops on a misty morning. Her voice, her warm embrace. Even her forgetfulness at times in his upbringing. The king's voice returned his meandering mind to the present.

"Well met, Maeglin."

"Your majesty," the black-haired elf replied with a slight nod.

The king regarded his sister-son for a few moments, his face open and honest. Somewhat hesitatingly, considering his status, Turgon continued. "I wanted to hear how you were faring, after everything."

Maeglin swallowed, his gaze cast downward. Was he not simply dragging his feet into every new day by some unruly force of will? But how not to make it sound like a bitter complaint? "I am faring and nothing more, lord." The only words he found.

The king observed the other's drawn face and shadowed eyes. Young eyes, having seen too much in too short a time. "I know this is the most difficult of trials for you. Indeed it is one I currently share, as I miss your mother more than I can say. But you have lost much more." His clear eyes settled on inky black ones. "This should have unfolded differently."

Maeglin listened, the words tugging at his heartstrings. Yes, it should have. Her son should be the one buried beneath white stone and black soil, not her.

"Though my mind believes justice was done and holds no regret, my spirit tells me I have wronged. I would ask your forgiveness."

Maeglin opened his mouth to speak, his dark eyes and pale features widened in surprise. "Uncle?..."

"Your father's early death is a stain upon your life, and this guilt I will ever carry. If only because it left you bereft of the closest of kin," Turgon sighed and looked outside the window.

"No-" the young elf added hastily but bit down on his lip upon realizing he had rudely interrupted the king. He wavered, the words failing to spill. Yet upon meeting the gaze of his uncle, to his astonishment he saw only concern and understanding.

"Go on," Turgon hedged.

Maeglin took a deep breath. "It was a hard and finite punishment, but..." His mother should still be alive. If it were not for his sire, she would be. "...I do not think your judgment unfair," he finished, and the bitterness of his voice expressed the duality of grief he dueled. Restitution for such a deed had to pass. He met the king's eye squarely.

Turgon regarded his nephew thoughtfully. "I know you hurt. I also know I cannot change that, nor can I ease your grief in this hour. But this I wanted to impart, Maeglin: we are bound by blood, and now that you are here, you are of my House, a prince of Gondolin. And I will do all that I can, to ensure you have what you need to flourish here."

With these words, Turgon came to stand before the young elf who was regarding him wide-eyed. He placed strong hands on his nephew's shoulders. "I vow it."

Maeglin was stunned. Of course, he somehow suspected the king would not turn him away, but this honor was unsought for. "I do not know what to say. Your words move me, but I fear I do not deserve this," he added somewhat bitterly, the guilt over his mother's death a potent poison.

"Say nothing then, Maeglin Lómion son of my beloved sister. Mourn, heal your wounds until they scar, and look for a future within these walls by my side. I foresee great things to be wrought of your hands, and even greater deeds. You need but see it yourself, in time." The words had been wrought with honest conviction.

Maeglin felt his spirits shift. Kin. He was after all, not alone. It was perhaps at that moment that true appreciation for his uncle bloomed in his chest. "I am ever grateful, lord," he placed a hand to his heart.

Turgon smiled down on his sister-son, the new member of his household. And the memory of his Írissë. Then, with a grave and definite tone, the king shared his final thoughts. "You are not to blame for her demise."

The other elf lowered his head further. He brought a hand to his face to shelter his now rather unsteady composure. It was unbecoming.

"Never think such," Turgon added, his grip tightening on the other's shoulder.

After some time Maeglin uncovered his face, and Turgon saw new determination shining through bright, black lights. "Where do I begin?"

Smiling, Turgon shook the prince of Gondolin gently by the shoulder. "Why in the library, of course."

* * *

A stray leaf flew over the worn page. Idril blew it gently away. It had proven to be a bright day and perfect for a stroll through the gardens after her flute lessons. Lying as she was onto the grass on her side, her cascade of golden hair about her, she had been pouring over a book of lost tales from Valinor. A gust of wind blew here and there, wringing music from the tree boughs without. So enveloped was she that time appeared to still, and only after a long hour did Idril raise her gaze from her reading, intent on resting her eyes-

Only to see _him. _Not too far away but still in plain view, he stood with his back against one of the many trees in the palace gardens, a book of his own in hand. The maiden was somewhat shielded from his sight owing to a sparse thicket surrounding her resting spot. Idril doubted he had seen her, but she, however, could observe him freely. Quite absorbed with his reading, her new kin appeared. She huffed, eyes returning to her page. Then back to him.

He was so... strange. His long black hair was straighter, finer, and of a deeper shade than any she had seen of her Noldorin kin. It came in sharp contrast with that ghoulishly pale skin, though one had to admit it suited him. And those eyes. When first Idril had looked upon him, those black fathoms had nearly crumbled her with their dark fires. But she managed to hold his gaze then and even repel it. She still held a tinge of pride for that feat. Further, it was so odd to think of him as kin. It worried her that the king had welcomed this outsider into their midst so readily. Yes, he was the last of what remained of her aunt, but what did they know of him? Nothing. What of the thoughts the Dark Elf might have sown into his mind? Would this elf truly become one of them, or turn into a plotter in the shadows?

But then another side joined in her musings, shaming her for the ill-thought. For forgetting the sheer misery she had seen in those dark eyes and how lonely he had seemed, seated on those stairs. He looked so lost that day. In passing, she noticed her cousin now wore the same garb he did then. A dark red tunic, its collar and sleeves hemmed with black thread. He was barefoot as well, his black trousers rolled up to his calves, having removed his boots. It made her peek at her own bare feet. Her book long forgotten, her eyes strayed back to him-

Was that a squirrel?

The creature had somehow found its way next to his person and was now steadily climbing the length of his leg. He smiled, then that smile only grew and grew, until Idril barely recognized him as he was. Long fingers left the pages to glide lightly over the rich, reddish tail of the animal. Silently she watched him rise and face the tree, gently lifting the squirrel to its lowest branch as it scuttled away.

A tug was felt from somewhere, and the maiden barely realized it had come from within herself. She shook her head, eyes hastily back on her manuscript.

"There you are!" a feminine voice suddenly sounded close to her.

Startled and flushing, Idril turned her head and rose halfway, causing enough movement to reveal her location. And sure enough, she did, for now, the dark-haired elf was looking her way. Idril rather defeatedly stared upward.

Caniel of the House of Ecthelion, and her friend, was staring down at her with a raised eyebrow. "I have been searching for you throughout! Today of all days you choose to wander when we had agreed to aid in preparation for the festival."

Tarnin Austa, the Gates of Summer, was held with great care and regard by the Gondolindrim. It was to happen in a few weeks' time and the custom was, among others, to prepare songs and odes to be sung to daybreak at sunrise, in honor of the first days of summer.

"Oh Caniel, forgive me, I was-"

"Who is that?" her friend suddenly spoke. Then she gasped. "Is that not your cousin? They say he had midnight hair and a deathly appearance. Now I see the truth of it."

Why was everyone so interested in him? "It is he," she said rather flatly.

"And yet you stay here and he is way over there. Is that any way to treat kin, you vile elf?" Caniel teased.

Idril quirked her lower lip. Jest or not, the words rang true. But something kept her away. What it was, Idril did not know but she was beginning to suspect it had less to do with him, and more to do with her.

"Why do we not call him over?" Caniel went on unabated, raising her arm to do just that.

"Caniel, do not!" Idril hissed, reaching for her friend's arm to end this untoward endeavor.

"You are behaving ghastly. Your own orphaned cousin." Then, her ever sharp mind and teasing manner the winner, Caniel continued rather cautiously. "Is there... anything amiss with him?" Their words were now higher in pitch yet neither seemed to notice.

Irked at her friend's prodding, Idril sharply closed her book and rose to stand. "Everything may be amiss with him, not that it matters, now cease your taunting and let us be off."

Then her attention was caught by a flash of red. Her azure eyes scanned the path leading away from the gardens, and over his receding back. Idril could not see his face but the tension in his gait was proof enough, that he had heard it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Your father commands you. Leave the house of his enemies and the slayers of his kin, or be accursed!' - The Silmarillion, Of Maeglin  
'Here shall you fail of all your hopes, and here may you yet die the same death as I.' - The Silmarillion, Of Maeglin
> 
> I chose to use the Sindarin versions of proper names in narration, though characters may at times refer to each other by their Quenya names if applicable.


	2. Opening

Book in hand, Maeglin passed swiftly over the path leading to the palace towers, his mood dour. What had _she_ been doing there? Seeking peace, he had found it briefly under the singing boughs of the palace gardens. Lost in the tranquility of his reading, he heard a stir not far from him. Then, Maeglin had been utterly astonished to find her there, though his cousin had not even deigned to acknowledge him. It was not the first time. _Nor will it be the last_, he thought morosely. And then he heard her words. So, it appeared that Idril was not only wary of him but had already decided with regard to his character.

_"Everything may be amiss with him." _

At first, the words burned in a way only his father had been able to inflict before. But setting aside the odd feeling of dread her words evoked, the elf recognized that she spoke true. All was not well with him, despite all efforts to conquer the lingering shadows. Ones that would not leave him be. The memory of loss was still strong, and would not be abated. Perhaps she had sensed it.

Either way, Maeglin thought it would be for the best if, moving forward, he avoided the one called Idril in as much as was possible. He sighed. Kind and open though Turgon might be, it was now certain his daughter did not share the same feelings towards his person. _But I have done nothing to her. _It was this thought alone that riled him. He had come to this hidden realm and was still learning, striving to understand its goings and the ways of its people. It was one matter to hear stories of it, but a different one altogether to be living them.

His thoughts kept his feet moving, his fast stride taking him across narrow stairways and to the upper levels of the palace. So enmeshed was Maeglin in the weavings of his mind that he barely noticed the sudden obstacle hindering his way. From the force of the impact, the tome he had been holding flew from his hand. Eyes focusing, Maeglin saw two dark heads of hair blocking his path. Their faces were brightened with mirth, but their eyes spoke of dissent. The three youth stared at each other for a few good moments.

"Eyes on your path, stranger!" one of the elves quipped then, and Maeglin thought he saw the hint of a scornful smile on his face. "Else unfortunate events ... such as this, occur," he drawled, light eyes flitting over the narrow baluster.

Maeglin followed his gaze and to his dismay, he saw the tome had landed near the edge of a fountain pool below. He turned his focus back to the intruders, eyes narrowing.

"Still he lingers! Hasten, Dark Elf, for we have no time to waste," the other elf motioned then even as Maeglin leveled them both with a hard stare. His blood boiling for an unknown reason, he pondered for a moment. Were all these Ñoldor so distrustful and charring?

_Dark Elf. _"I meant no ill will," Maeglin gritted, sullenly shouldering between them and their smiles to be on his way.

"Indeed an odd character," he heard one of them muttering behind him. Maeglin smothered a primal urge to turn on his heel and forcefully wrench that grin off the speaker's face. Only once did he look back, noticing with trepidation but a complete lack of surprise that the maidens, Idril, and the other, had joined the two on their way from the gardens. Of course, they were all alike. Musical laughter rang in his ears in defiance and Maeglin quickened his strides until he heard it no more.

Following the advice of the king, Maeglin had sought and discovered the riches of the palace library. His interest was further fueled by the vast knowledge of metals and mountains the tomes of Turgon contained. Mining and metalwork had always been a part of his life. His father had begun teaching him of the underworld, its gifts, and their properties ever since Maeglin was able to walk. And now, dwelling in Gondolin and surrounded by the imposing Encircling Mountains, the elf could only fathom what hidden riches lay beneath. Riches he could use to better the goings of his adopted city.

Having reached a terrace, Maeglin stopped to observe the blooming sunset. Golden rays of warm light smoothed his brow into calmness. Memories eddied, and he let them meander and disappear. He closed his eyes and seated himself down against the winding stair leading to the next level. _This, too, shall pass. _But how that would be accomplished, Maeglin was yet to discover.

_Mother, if only you were here._ He missed her counsel and warm shoulder to lean upon. Turgon was every part the willing guardian but he still was king and had little time to spare for the personal woes of a new ward. This sparked a different thought. He was a child no longer. The thought was soon relinquished to the hidden valley of Tumladen spread before his eyes, garbed in flowing greens and blues at the foot of the mountains.

_"Your poor orphaned cousin," _one of them had said. So they pitied him. A new sentiment, one Maeglin had seldom felt. He recalled witnessing the lonely tears of his mother all those times she thought he had drifted into rest. Or was it spoken in jest? For the life of him, Maeglin could not fathom what was so very amusing about his person. If he were to make an unusual but understandable comparison, he saw nothing but the meanness of Eöl his father in their words.

Elbows on his knees, Maeglin allowed the scenery to wash over him, vaguely pondering on the number of towers hailing the skies within the hidden city. It helped lessen the brooding force of his mind, become a fast hindrance. He ought to be more disciplined now he was here, and allow no failure. He wanted no glory, craved no lavishing attention. Maeglin considered that he did want to please Turgon and bring pride unto his face for the deeds of his kin. But there was yet more to be achieved before that came to pass.

As he pondered, Maeglin recalled their laughter. Did he crave to be a part of what he saw earlier? Loneliness had been a way of life for him before Gondolin. How was it then, that when he saw them grouping together he wished to be with them? But his wish mattered little. There was at least one person there who would agree with him.

Maeglin thought he sensed movement out of the corner of his eye but paid no need. He was still and drenched in thought, eyes now lowered to shield them from the overly bright rays. Suddenly that light dimmed. Noticing this, the dark-haired elf lifted his head to the view of a dark green dress haloed by the fading sun and a slender waist framed by falling gold.

Dark fused with light as his eyes locked with those of Idril, now standing before him with a listless mien on her slight face. He blinked. First, as Maeglin recalled then and there that she was, indeed, quite fair. A conclusion he had forgotten since their first encounter. And secondly, the prince wondered why his cousin stood before him. Then he took notice of the tome in her hand. 

Maeglin gaped at her, lips parted in wonder, but he did have enough presence of mind to reach and take the proffered tome. His fingers lightly brushed over her slender ones before the maiden hastily pulled her hand away. Then, to his unending surprise, instead of retreating, Idril lifted the flowing skirts about herself and turning sat down next to him on the stair, forearms resting on her thighs.

What now?

"Thank you," was what he settled for, his eyes on the drenched cover of the manuscript. His first words to her. The tome was thankfully only partially soaked he noticed, thus not completely destroyed. It could be salvaged if taken to the master binder.

Moments passed in silence but his mind had burst into flames. Not only did she not hastily turn away this time, but his cousin had chosen to stay. In lieu of watching her, Maeglin decided for the view ahead of them.

"You should not take the words of Úfárion and Mercion to heart." Her voice was softer than he remembered. 

_And what of yours? _his unasked question hovered on the fringes of thought. Still, Maeglin dared to glance her way in askance. The first words she ever spoke to him directly. Her vision was also focused on the sunset and then, to his heightening amazement, she spoke again. 

"They are of the House of Rog. They can be quite boisterous and slighting at times, and none are used to seeing new faces," Idril continued her explanation.

"I take few things to heart, my lady," was the best reply Maeglin could muster, his eyes still on the view now bathed in twilight. Indeed, what damage could a few irreverent words cause that could overshadow the recent events in his life?

"Call me Idril. Or Itarillë, if you prefer... " she trailed away.

Maeglin felt robbed of eloquent speech. Then a thought crossed his mind. She was being regretful. Perhaps she also pitied him. Somehow that sat ill with him, but who looks for impurities in a gifted shard? "If that is your wish," he said to the wind, noticing with some unease the rebellion behind his ribs. A new and foreign sensation, and one he very much wanted to disperse. "And you may call me Maeglin, in turn," he added, feeling as if he should reciprocate. He was still new to all of this, but he was learning. And in truth, though his mother had secretly named him Lómion in the tongue of her people, he had always identified better with his Sindarin name. 

"That I shall," came the reply.

He did not feel her leave his side. Glancing to his right after some time, Maeglin found he was alone once more.

She had come to him, the distrustful daughter of the king. How strange and conflicting were the natures of all beings. She had shattered his silence with her quiet gait and sure voice, breaching through the great divide he was beginning to construct in his mind. She left behind confusion and an opening, and a lingering scent of elanor which still hung in the air about him. He did not know it at the time, but he would never forget it.

* * *

Days passed and turned into weeks. The first days of summer drew nigh and with them so did the celebrated Tarnin Austa, to mark the beginning of a new season and all the change that came with warmer weather. Preparations were underway for the main ceremony to take place that day. The city would be filled with lamps of silver light, and new-leaved trees were wrought with jewels reflecting their light upon the stones of its streets and the walls of its buildings. It was a rare sight, and many contributed to its making.

Idril was presently doing her part, having taken the task of decorating the young trees surrounding the palace. She bore gemstones cut with skill and encased in silver hanging threads, a grace to look upon. A soft cloth belt cinched her waist where she kept the pouches with gems as the maiden nimbly climbed each tree, and adorned it with the precious stones. It was spirited work, and she would at times sing to keep herself company. Others were keeping to the same task throughout the area.

So she worked, climbing and descending each tree in turn. Idril enjoyed this ritual, a reminder of her early youth. Her voice trilled into a melancholy note as she presently leaned forward towards a branch, deemed the perfect place for one of the adornments.

"Busy, I see?" a voice sounded from below, and looking down through the branches Idril saw long dark hair and a cerulean gaze.

"More than some, Mercion," she replied roguishly to the elf who now came to stand at the base of the tree.

"I was actually searching for you. May we speak?" the other continued.

Idril hesitated, suspecting the nature of the topic he would broach. "Certainly."

Once her feet were on the ground, Mercion drew closer until they faced each other at arm's length. His voice and manner changed. "Will you observe with me tonight? During the ceremony."

It was a practice for those intended or otherwise betrothed to stand in silent watch together upon the Eastern wall, during the main event of the festival. It all lasted from midnight to dawn.

Mercion was nothing if not brave and courteous. Yet the maiden felt no particular connection to him aside from that of a lively, somewhat overbearing friend. Idril dreaded to deny him again, as she had the previous year. But looking deep within, she knew it would only foster false hope. Nothing was to come of it.

"You are silent," he smiled sadly.

"Forgive me. Mercion, I do not mean to be harsh," she stared into his changing expression.

"But your answer has not changed since last we spoke of this."

At this Idril looked to her bare feet. "I believe it better this way."

She heard a short, bitter laugh. "There is another?"

Idril frowned. "No, Mercion, there is not." And that was the truth of it.

Mercion nodded, his expression thoughtful as he stared to his own feet. "Very well then. It was worth trying." With a vague friendly smile, he bowed deeply to the princess, and turning on his heel left her.

Idril sighed. It was not to be. But she would muse on this particular topic at a later time. There was more work to be done, and she would also need to oversee the arrangements for the event on the wall. Looking into her pouch, she counted the remainder of trees left to bedeck. Her stash would require replenishment soon. Idril climbed back into the tree, set the gems, and soon her feet took her to the ones lining the path towards the inner court gates.

She continued with her task and soon nearly completed embellishing the line of trees on the right side of the path. She moved to the left. Climbing one of the trees Idril noticed a good place for the next gem, but the branch she needed to traverse was rather precarious to stand upon. Still, she tried, trusting in her balance and familiarity with the task. Her feet balanced nimbly on the thin branch, her hand reaching to hang the silver thread, brow furrowing in attention-

Unawares her foot slid off the smooth bark and once delicate balance was lost, there was nothing keeping her from falling.

Idril expected a painful landing. But when she opened her eyes, she found herself suspended rather suspiciously above ground, and held to something warm. Looking upward, Idril found that something to be a someone, saw a black tunic, and her fingers had unknowingly tangled in long raven tresses.

"Maeglin-" she gasped, staring into stark black eyes.

"Strange fruit if I ever saw one," he spoke, and though his face did not smile Idril saw the mirth in his eyes. He then placed an abashed maiden on her own two feet. "I was passing through to the gate." And he had seen her.

Her back and limbs surely thanked him. "Gratitude,...-cousin," Idril followed quickly, indeed relieved for his opportune presence.

"I was only nearly caught unawares. It was no trouble at all, really," Maeglin replied in kind, "-cousin." This time, he did smile.

Though not exceedingly close, he was at least on speaking terms with his cousin since their short sunset meeting a few weeks prior. It had dispersed some initial awkwardness and since then, chance encounters had brought more familiarity between them. Once or twice the prince had joined Idril for walks where the maiden would speak of different aspects of life in Gondolin. And Maeglin would listen, intrigued, and seeing his interest only added to her slowly changing opinion of him.

Yes, Maeglin was rather quiet. And yes, he had a sad air about him which some, if not most, found discouraging. Some deemed him cold and unapproachable. For these reasons many his age still watched him with remnants of wariness. But he listened well and when the prince of Gondolin spoke his words were ofttimes sensible and even wise, considering he was barely come of age and thus yet young for an elf.

"What were you trying to achieve?" he was asking, staring at the rest of the trees lined with light dispersing stones and shards. 

The maiden quirked an eyebrow, but then recalled he may not know of the custom. "We are preparing for the Gates of Summer. Tonight we greet the season with light, color, and song."

Dark eyes widened in wonder as she retrieved the gemstone from whence it had fallen, presenting it to him.

"We adorn our city with lamps of gleaming silver and new leafing trees with-"

"Beryl," Maeglin finished, taking the stone from her hand.

Indeed it was so, and Idril watched how its light feathered in green shades over his pallid face. "That it is."

Maeglin must have seen the question in her eyes for he added, "I have studied ores and the gifts of the deeps all my life. I know of the underworld, its materials and their properties."

Of course. She had heard his father had been a smith. It would be only logical that the trade would be passed to his only son. "A proven fact," Idril smiled his way, feeling oddly lighter when he returned the same. It brought a sharp change to his otherwise fair but yet grieving features. She thought this suited him better. Idril broke their gaze and looked to her pouch. "I have others, do you wish to see?"

"Do _you_ require aid?"

Idril pondered. "Can you climb trees?"

"I was born in a forest."

A jest. A dry one, but a jest nonetheless. It seemed this one boasted more wit than he showed.

She looked back into his piercing onyx gaze. "Then follow me."

And he did. Tree after tree they decked with refined gems, Maeglin climbing the higher ones more out of reach. The combination worked well and by the time they were done, dusk was upon them.

"What happens now?" Maeglin asked once his cousin descended the last tree.

"Now we prepare for the ceremony. The rising sun will be greeted with songs of old, spanning from the very beginnings. From when the Sun was new, and still a wonder to those of our kindred who had only the stars to mark for light."

_My father's people among them._ He followed her expression keenly, pondering. "That might be interesting to follow."

"Oh it is!" the maiden chimed excitedly. Then, perhaps against a small voice inside urging her not to, Idril said, "Join me. We could take watch, together," then hastily she added, "if you have no other arrangements?"

His expression was unreadable, save for the dark light in his almond-shaped eyes. "I have no other dealings for tonight."

"Then let us meet later, at the Eastern Wall?"

He inclined his head. "Until then, Idril."

* * *

When she reached their meeting place there were plenty of folk already gathered along the great wall. Long wooden tables adorned each side of the wall, laden with wine, chilled tea, and fruit. She looked for her cousin. He was not difficult to spot with his pale appearance and raven hair, clad in black as he was from head to toe. Idril found this a quirk which suited him strangely well. His back to her, he was observing the dying day. To Idril he was not unlike a roughened jewel in a sea of glass. He stood apart in his shadowed beauty among the bright shimmer of her kindred. Idril blinked, discarding the strange lingering thought as she neared.

"Well met, prince," she greeted.

"Idril," her cousin acknowledged her with a nod.

They stood for a while in silence, watching the gatherings murmuring quietly among themselves. Most wore light robes fluttering with the mild winds heralding warm weather, and their hair strayed in the breeze as they watched the skies.

"We are not to speak from midnight to dawn," Idril revealed, earning a nod in understanding.

More stillness followed and though not uncomfortable, Idril felt she needed to share a thought bearing down upon her, and one she had not had the chance to speak of, until now. She looked at him. His gaze was set towards the fallen twilight ahead."I admit, I thought very little of you at first," the maiden spoke after a while, sounding rather faint to her own ears. A warm gust swept through their hair and garments.

"How so?" she heard the question, his face showing true curiosity.

While her initial dislike of him had been quite obvious, they never spoke of the reason at length. Idril hesitated.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Idril, in all honesty, I would deem it behind us, if you would."

"I would. Agreed." She looked sideways at him before continuing. "Please do not think me unjust, but in the beginning, I was fearful of you. It all started when I witnessed..." she paused, looking to him with regret, "the execution." His father. Idril rued drawing the memory to the surface, seeing the strain on his hard features. Still, she decided to finish her thought. "You showed no emotion nor grief whatsoever as it was done, nor did you speak against it. And I thought I sensed a... darkness in you. And, perhaps that kept me away."

She saw his expression sadden, his head lowering. "I understand why you would think so."

"It was wrong of me."

Maeglin turned to look at her then and saw remorse. "I admit that I think about it, most of the time. I should have..." he trailed off.

"Forgive me," his cousin placed her hand on his forearm propped against the wall as if to anchor her words. It seemed to her Maeglin flinched at the touch, he but did not draw away.

"I did not mean to remind you of it all." But she had, and now it was too late.

But his eyes held a different light in them as Maeglin watched her. "Truly, it is no matter." He looked back ahead to the darkened valley. The mountains towered around them as silent guardians, holding up the stars. "Dwelling on the past brings nothing."

Idril barely felt his hand come over the one lingering on his forearm, and became suddenly and acutely aware of the light pressure of long fingers.

The night was fresh, and stars shivered in wreaths across the sky. Idril looked upward, feeling his gaze on her. She felt strangely content, and none spoke another word. The silent watch began.


	3. Curse

Maeglin strode purposefully through the outer gates of the palace towards the training grounds. The day was in full bloom, warm and brimming with life. He had spent the morning taking lessons in lore and matters of legal nature from his assigned tutor Tecindion. Both captivating topics to be sure and Maeglin felt all the more grateful to Turgon for the care towards furthering him.

But another notion now made the focus of his thoughts, surprising the elf in a way which was somewhat worrying. At times and completely against himself, despite the engaging way and teachings of his tutor, Maeglin found his thoughts straying to the recent Tarnin Austa. And to the peaceful closeness felt in the presence of his cousin. The silence of the yielding night, the stars above, and the overall character of peace enveloping them all in their praise left quite an impression on his mind and heart. It had been his first celebratory experience in Gondolin, and its prince was thankful to Idril for having led him to it. He thought he ought to show his gratitude, somehow.

And then there was the hand on his arm. The way she had looked at him when they considered their first impressions of one another. Her warm touch had caused a strange and foreign stir, and the elf tried telling himself that it was pity he had seen in her lingering stare. But Maeglin had witnessed pity before and knew it well. No, something else had lit her features when his cousin looked at him. Maeglin had seen it both then, and earlier in the gardens, when he had barely caught her in his arms to prevent her fall. What it was, he did not know as of yet, but hoped to see more of it. And more of her. After all, they were kin, were they not? He was surprised to find he now eagerly awaited their following encounter, and briefly wondered if she did so as well. But the son of Eöl would not seek her. He would leave the choice to her.

Deciding for patience and barring these thoughts that unsettled him, his steps followed to the lower levels of the white walls towards the training yard. This consisted of a wide rectangular green space set in an area rich with flora, surrounded by strong majestic oak trees.

Maeglin lingered to witness the training of the palace guard for a while. A vast number of lightly armored elves were assigned by their superiors to practicing various training methods and techniques. Their weapons and garb gleamed in the sun, their movements orderly and clean.

A division trained with spear and shield, another was assigned to the archery range, their arrows slicing through the air as unseen gusts of wind. Others were engaged in sparring with blades.

Being close to the midday meal their numbers would dwindle soon. Maeglin watched in silent appraisal, his dark gaze roaming over the scene. He then searched for a place for his own use, finding an empty clearing and setting towards it. Once there, he pulled black Anguirel from its scabbard and began a warming sequence. His father had taught him all he knew of swordsmanship and he would try to hone that skill near every day if responsibilities allowed. His vision was to achieve a level of mastery allowing him to forge the best of weapons attainable, a goal Maeglin kept in mind with his studies of metals and mining. He feinted, then turned and slashed. Some time had passed this way. The elf again pivoted gracefully for a strike, when his eyes met ardent blue ones. Seeing no friendly light in them, Maeglin ceased his movements and stared dispassionately at the newcomer.

"Nae, I see my usual place has been claimed," the other said by way of greeting.

Maeglin recognized this elf. One of the two who had hindered his way, on the day he and Idril had spoken their first words to each other. He schooled his features into blankness with a curt incline of his head. "Apologies. I did not know this space was assigned to you." And yet, he had no desire to abandon it now. 

The other elf crossed his arms, his haughty gaze softening somewhat. His features lit with a new thought. "No matter. I am called Mercion," the elf brought his hand to his heart.

"And I, Maeglin."

Mercion smiled though it did not reach his eyes. "I am aware. Well, _prince_ Maeglin, why not make the best of our fateful meeting? What say you to a sparring match?" he asked through his smile.

Maeglin already held this one in little regard since the day of their first meeting. Unprovoked, this one had thrown those humiliating words into his face. A side of him wished to wave away the challenge. Would it serve him at all? But in the end, his sense of competition, and perhaps the wish for a form of reprisal were the winner. And being called craven behind his back was the last he wanted. "Why not," he acquiesced.

And so each went into their stance. Maeglin could only admire the surety in his opponent, the gracefulness of his movements, and his swift parrying. Anguirel flashed black against silver, and they danced like so for a while, none sparing the other a moment's reprieve. Finally, Maeglin observed a slight err on the other's part owing to his footing, one he could use to find an opening.

And sure enough, when Mercion slashed forward the prince took the chance, blocking with perhaps more force than necessary.

The other lost his posture and fell back, landing roughly onto the ground. His stare turned steely, no trace of the haughty smile from before. Now on his feet, he eyed Maeglin as they circled each other again.

Maeglin waited. His father had always cautioned against fury driving one's actions._ How ironic,_ he thought offhandedly. It was all a game of anticipation and fielding one's opponent. Sure enough, Mercion lunged at him and their match began anew. Their blades met forcefully with a hissed clang as each tried to subdue the other. They both pushed forward, none yielding.

Then, as they stood so, Mercion spoke into his black stare. "I am not one to mince words. I must say, I know not what the king sees in one such as you."

Maeglin narrowed his eyes but said nothing and retreated fluidly, intent on making a new offensive. And so he did, even as the other parried and repelled him.

His blood boiled from the continued distrust and unwarranted dislike this elf showed. It drowned his better sense, and despite his discipline, Maeglin followed a stray sliver of brimming anger. He was about to bring the full force of his sword upon the silver blade in a move that might have resulted in the other's defeat, when his eye caught sight of golden hair in the fringes of his vision. The distraction lasted but a sliver of time but it cost him. He failed to place enough force into his attack, and so Mercion threw him back easily, and again lunged towards him. Maeglin feinted but not fast enough and so the blade of his opponent found its mark, slashing into his arm. He fell back, feeling the sudden stinging sensation right below his shoulder.

"Mercion!" someone hissed then.

A widening red pattern now adorned the sleeve of his tunic. Mercion tirelessly swung his blade again, forcing him on the defensive. This time pain erupted in his arm. Still, he would not yield, not to this infuriating naysayer and his hasty judgment. 

"Both of you, cease this at once!" someone cried anew, and this time both panting opponents turned to the source of the irked voice.

Idril was hastening towards them, a basket in hand, her brow furrowed. "What is it you think you are doing?"

Her usually serene eyes bore firebolts, her brow creased in intense distaste, her tresses afire with the golden sun.

Maeglin blinked. She was beautiful.

He wordlessly disengaged Mercion with a forceful push, their blades sliding along each other.

"Nothing but a friendly match. What brings you here, Idril?" Mercion asked as both elves straightened, and Maeglin noticed the subtle change in his bearing. _He holds her in high regard._ To his utter confusion and alarm, the thought of it fuelled his dislike of the other.

Idril apparently would have none of it. "A match?" her eyes fell on Maeglin and his injured arm. "Since when does wounding others constitute a friendly match?"

Mercion seemed only slightly cowed, but he lowered his eyes, his gaze flickering to Maeglin briefly. He watched as Idril approached her cousin, her hand carefully placed close to his injury. "There is always a risk, Idril," he followed coldly.

Maeglin frowned, his gaze shifting to Idril, who was inspecting his wound. "Truly, it is nothing," he spoke as their eyes met.

"Still, it must be tended to," she offered, and Maeglin felt all the stranger for the light of determination in her eyes. It reminded him of their first encounter in the halls of Turgon.

He looked back to Mercion, and found the other elf leveling him with an indescribable stare, his posture stiff. So it was true. This one nurtured a type of longing for the daughter of Turgon. 

"Come," her voice drew his eyes back to hers, her fingers wrapping around his wrist as Idril beckoned him forward.

"If you insist," Maeglin submitted reluctantly, the scent of elanor about her strong and confusing. This was not how he had imagined their following meeting. But under her stare he sheathed Anguirel, and let himself be led away from the training grounds, paying Mercion no heed.

* * *

Their trek was silent as they reached the healing wing, both lost in thought. Maeglin had regained his calm in the meanwhile, his mind only slightly unnerved at the words Mercion had thrown at him. They climbed a number of stairs to the second level and entered the gate leading to their destination.

Idril entered first and spoke quietly to an apprentice. It seemed Varyare, the healer on duty, had been called away and would return only in the evening.

Maeglin and Idril regarded each other then, her gaze flitting to the wound which Maeglin currently clasped with his other hand. Blood trickled through his fingers.

"You cannot stay like this, untended."

He found her worry endearing, though somewhat unnecessary. "Idril, it is fine, I will clean it and-"

"No, I will," she interrupted. "Seat yourself there," Idril motioned to a clean pallet covered in fine white cotton sheets.

Increasingly Maeglin saw more and more glimpses of the steadfast nature of his cousin, despite her deceptively soft appearance and manner. He found it rather suited her.

"I was taught the basics of healing and possess some knowledge on treating cuts and sword injuries," she clarified. "My father's entreaty," she smiled at him. Idril took a bowl of steaming water the helper had brought in the meantime and placed it on a small table near the pallet. An array of white strips of cloth were laid beside the bowl. A deep, refreshing scent filled the room. Looking closer Maeglin saw long, dark green leaves swirling in the hot water. He remembered this plant from his wanderings in Nan El-moth. It was called athelas, and it boasted acerbic constrictive and disinfecting properties.

"I suppose I have no choice but to trust you," he jested, watching as Idril washed her hands.

A roguish smile pulled at her lips. "If I were you, I would take heed of my words, for you are in my hands now," the daughter of Turgon said. 

He blinked. An interesting idea.

Idril broke their gaze, and Maeglin found it odd that her features became tinted with a rosy color as she immersed a piece of cloth in the athelas water.

"You must remove your upper garments," he heard then.

Maeglin hesitated only a moment, but then did as he was bid. Now he stood bare-chested before her and Idril moved closer, inspecting the wound. It was not too deep but still would require sutures. She was capable of such. Deciding she could aid him, Idril set to work, her hands moving as gently as she was able. When done, she wrapped the wound over in thin layers of bandages.

"Thank you, Idril."

Idril smiled with a nod, turning to wash her hands in a nearby basin, speaking as she did. "By the next moon turn, I and a few others are planning an outing to lake Tumladen. You ought to join us."

Maeglin pondered, shaking his head. "I do not think your friends revel in my company."

She turned to him, wiping her hands with a small white towel. "I believe they simply must know you better."

He gazed at his bandaged arm. "Truly?" he smiled drily.

Idril sighed, coming to sit beside her cousin on the pallet. "Mercion is the way he is, but his heart is in the right place. I know not why he opposes you so. But his is not the general sentiment. Úfárion and Alime are quite interested to know more of you, and my friend Caniel I am certain finds you fascinating," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "Join us," she entreated again, her eyes smiling in tune with her lips.

Maeglin looked on rather helplessly, meeting her gaze. Could he truly refuse? "Well, then. Let us speak on the day," he said rather reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand.

Idril beamed at him.

* * *

The day of the outing was a pleasant one with mild winds and a steady sun. They started on horses, galloping outside the city walls and over the wide plains. They had packed light provisions as to not burden themselves. The force and speed of their mounts helped build a general cheery atmosphere, and one maiden even tried singing a high spirited lay as they rode. Soon the group slowed and dismounted as they reached a strip of forest, walking immersed in conversation. The elves were generally more open and friendlier than before, though how much of this was owed to Idril, Maeglin did not know. He and Mercion kept a generous distance away, only briskly acknowledging each other.

The gathering walked until they reached a green clearing boasting a sleepy, crystal clear lake. Its water beckoned invitingly in the summer sun. They sat together on the grass, sharing chilled herb tea, and connecting with the life around them. After some time spent this way Mercion and Caniel decided to go swim in the lake and left them. Maeglin sat reclining on the grass, propped back on his arms, admiring the blue and purple hues of the Echoriath in the distance. He longed to travel there, and he would. The elf had already spoken to the master smith to allow him an advanced apprenticeship, since he was already a smith for all intents and purposes, and his early travels had made him nearly as knowledgeable as the more experienced elves of the trade. He briefly thought of his trips with his father, and times spent among the dwarves within the mansions of Nogrod and Belegost.

Maeglin turned his head, intent on asking a question of Úfárion, who was also a swordsmith. But his inquiry froze on his lips, and what he saw stilled him.

On the grass, resting under the shady boughs, the elf maiden Alime was draped over Úfárion on her side, her palm over his chest. His own hand was around her nape, holding her to him as their lips were joined and moved tenderly over each other. Maeglin hastily averted his gaze. He had seen this before, and the stir of it was a familiar one. The elf recalled, with some amount of unease, that he had felt it himself. _Around Idril_, the thought struck him rather severely, and so did a pang of deep guilt. Then he heard soft lilting laughter and turned to look upon his cousin, frowning. Somehow, though not intentional, her trilling was mocking to his ears.

"They are promised to one another," Idril supplied, seemingly amused by his surprised reaction. "They only act so freely around us, away from the scrutiny of the city, family, and acquaintances." The sun shone through her eyes, lit in amused understanding. Idril then lazily lay onto the soft grass with a sigh, arching her back to release the strain from her body. Doing so highlighted the small shapely globes of her chest and the narrowness of her waist. Maeglin turned sharply away, repulsed by his own thought. What in Arda was happening to him? He forced his gaze forward, towards the lake, where gasps of laughter reached them. He saw how Mercion and Caniel were splashing each other relentlessly with water, diving and resurfacing in unforeseen places in a game of sorts, where each aimed to surprise the other.

Despite himself, Maeglin smiled. His gaze turned back to Idril, still splayed onto the grass with her eyes closed. Feeling the need to quench his unrelenting thoughts, he rose and pulled his tunic over his head. His shirt followed, leaving him clad in his trousers. The elf set in the direction of the lake and dove gracefully into its waters, submerging completely, the cold a balm to his troubled mind.

He pierced through the water to draw breath and regard the view.

"I see you have gathered courage," came a soft voice from behind him. He turned, and his eyes fell on the one named Caniel.

A bright sight this one was with her silver-blue eyes and her dark head of hair, slightly lighter than the raven shade of Maeglin. A mirthful glint was in her gaze.

Maeglin found himself returning the smile. Then another thought came. _A distraction. _It was perfect.

"Lady Caniel," he greeted.

"Simply 'Caniel' is fine, prince Maeglin." She shifted closer to him.

"Must you use a title, then?" he raised a dark eyebrow, still smiling.

"Very well, _Maeglin_. I hear you are quite knowledgeable in the art of smithing and metalwork."

He dipped his head slightly. "I am grateful to whoever said so."

The maiden leveled him with a knowing gaze. "She was not mistaken, your cousin," Caniel added.

"Not mistaken?" She was rather confusing.

"About you, of course," Caniel laughed.

He was about to reply when a faraway bout of laughter reached him. Maeglin looked briefly to see Mercion on the bank, deep in discussion with Idril. She was propped on her arms, looking up at him and enjoyment was etched on her face. When Maeglin refocused his attention on his close surroundings, Caniel had disappeared.

The elf dove underwater again. Away from the others, he stood prey to his hidden thoughts. What was this strangeness in his mind, his heart? Each and every time he had encountered Idril recently, this unsettling pull made itself known through his senses. The elf briefly wondered if anyone else had been through a similar ordeal - because it did feel like one at this point - or if it was a common occurrence? He so far doubted it.

Maeglin had been unable to discern the nature of this feeling, apart from a need to touch, to feel close. But now he knew. What Alime and Úfárion had been doing... He wanted the same. With Idril.

He reemerged, then dove back into the water.

None nurtured such cravings for kin, not here. _Valar__, what is this?_

He finally broke the surface, his black hair dripping along his back. When Maeglin regarded his close surroundings there was no more sight of Mercion or Caniel.

A sudden splash blinded him. Then a weight was on his shoulders, submerging him fully under. Opening his eyes briefly Maeglin discerned a slim feminine body before he sprung above the water once more.

Shaking his head frantically, in his surprise he stared at the maiden now regaling him with her soft laughter. "An ambush!" Idril chimed gleefully, her hands still on his shoulders as they faced each other.

He gaped at her, needing a moment to regain himself.

"Oh but you do seem shaken, my apologies," Idril continued, and he felt her legs brushing against his as she moved.

"You startled me," Maeglin reproached breathlessly, her hands burning against his skin. It was a peculiar edge that she was driving him towards.

They regarded each other in silence, and Maeglin wondered what hid behind hers. Guiltily, he was thankful she had no inkling of his true mind, and what he had come to discover about himself.

Wanting to be rid of the silence Maeglin tried something else. His arm came around her waist and he plunged with her into the water, wringing a surprised and playful yelp. He lost a breath of air when unexpectedly her bared knee lightly grazed his lower abdomen. They continued to gape at each other under the water, floating weightlessly. Her thin dress swirled languidly around her body, revealing shapely slender legs; her hair swayed about her in liquid gold to the motion of a weak current, speared by sun rays piercing the water.

Though sparsely clad, Maeglin felt no shame before her - after all, Idril had seen him, recently. Then he saw her eyes trailing over him. A daring, black, and sinuous thought wormed its way into his increasingly troubled mind. Did she... could she... feel something similar to his own craving? The elf never considered such a notion before. But she ever sought his company, innocently though it was. His cousin never drew away from his closeness, or at the very least seemed unaffected by it. To put this to a trial, Maeglin brought his hands to the sides of her waist, drawing her only slightly closer to him. Their legs swam closer against each other, their hair mingling and entwined, onyx with gold. Maeglin succeeded in keeping his vision from straying elsewhere than her face.

Idril pointed towards their left, breaking the spell. He followed her direction and both began swimming together, deeper towards the middle of the lake. Closer to the rocky bed they glided, where slight, colorful fish made their abode. Idril smiled brightly, pointing to a fish of a particularly beautiful coat of scales. It was shimmering purple and emerald, lined with lively yellow. Then there was another variety, greater in size and longer in shape, of dainty deep red and russet shades. Then another. The pair swiftly journeyed towards the surface to catch a much-needed breath before diving anew. Swimming in a different direction, the elves beheld small brightly colored crabs and underwater plants brimming with slender golden fish, gaining the appearance of a continuous beam when they swam in shoals.

When they pierced the water surface for the third time, the sun was starting its descent. "We ought to return," Idril said, looking to her cousin, who nodded in agreement.

They joined the others, who were already donning their clothes, and Maeglin bent to retrieve his own shirt and tunic. His eyes strayed to Idril. Her wet dress clung to her figure in a way he had never seen before. It revealed the exact shape of her, all the harmonies and details of her body laid bare, from her neck down to her thighs.

Maeglin willed himself to glance away, and so met another pair of cold, searching eyes watching him. He and Mercion briefly regarded each other, and the other elf had the shade of a mocking smile on his face as he turned to retrieve his own pack.

As the group rode in return to the hidden city with the sunset at their backs, Maeglin felt its light pressing down on him. Something had changed today. He knew not what, but the raven-haired elf knew he must strive to smother that which drove his actions, before it took more powerful roots.


	4. Denial

Tanwetamo, the master smith, inspected the newly forged blade his apprentice had recently quenched. Maeglin followed his gaze as the older elf regarded his work with appraising eyes. Summer had passed since the prince of Gondolin began his work in the main smithy, and all was going well. He had both learned and taught much, to the surprise of both master Tanwetamo and other young elves such as himself practicing their crafts in the smithy.

"Splendid skill, prince. Yet again, you impress."

Maeglin nodded in acceptance of his words, knowing they did not come easily from one such as Tanwetamo.

"Will you temper this one yourself?" the master smith asked.

"I will. Time is not a rare commodity for me as of yet," Maeglin smiled. The blade was yet unfinished. It had to pass several more turns of heating and quenching before it would be deemed complete. This ensured the metal stayed strong and allowed the blade to retain its sharp edge.

Maeglin relished his time spent at the forge, studying the intricacies of working with ores and metals. There was also a certain sense of community among those toiling here, as with any closely knit group. Though strained at the beginning, the interactions between himself and his fellow smiths led to a companionship of sorts. There were young elves hailing from various Houses of Gondolin, but The House of the Hammer of Wrath led by Lord Rog was most prominent among these. As if on cue Mercion passed the two conversing elves, his tongs holding a new workpiece he had just removed from the fire. He shortly nodded to Maeglin before heading towards a nearby anvil. The two elves had never gotten past their shady dissent yet somehow they ofttimes found themselves in the vicinity of each other. In time an unspoken understanding came between them, to not engage each other unless it was absolutely necessary. And it suited them so far.

It was certainly heated inside the smithy. Maeglin stood garbed as the rest, with his long hair tied back, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up. He wore long, hard leather gloves reaching past his elbows as well as a knee-length blacksmith apron, tied at the waist.

His days had somewhat gained an orderly pattern. When the prince was not at the smithy, he was at the side of Turgon during his council gatherings or daily deed and petition solving sessions. When not with Turgon, he delved into tomes of knowledge held within the palace library. And when not encroached in either of these occupations, Maeglin would spend his time with his cousin and new acquaintances. This he sought to avoid, and yet dreaded to. Not only because Idril was kind, and sweet, and ever sought his company, priding herself with her 'twilight kin' as she now at times referred to him. Maeglin absentmindedly began tempering the blade he had wrought. Many a time the regular and known motions of his work opened the path towards his rummaging thoughts.

The most prominent reflection at the moment was how to distance himself from his cousin, if only in an attempt to smother the irrational feelings and sensations which seemed to have become a given in her presence. And yet, her company also helped appease that same craven need, somewhat. They had become closer in friendship and Maeglin relished this, but a part of him felt guilty for deceiving her so. Ever since their underwater moments at the lake he had not been able to tear the image of her flowing body and bright eyes out of his mind. Not few were the evenings when the elf would stand outside on the terrace of his chambers, leaned against the wall. Regarding the stars, and listening to the echoes of her nightingale voice, reaching up to him in song from the gardens below. He would shamefully recall the shape of her body and the softness of her skin. What both gladdened and grieved him most was that Idril appeared truly unaware of what had awakened in him. Maeglin doubted his kin would offer her friendship so eagerly, had she known the true nature of his regard. But Maeglin did care for her, and desired her happiness above all else. And yet...

He shuddered to think what Turgon would say of this deceit. It was not far from the possibility that Maeglin would be thrown from the highest terrace over the white walls. He shook his head. No, it probably would not be as harsh a punishment, but the shame of such a reveal would follow him ever after. Despite him knowing for a certainty that his father's people did at times join their destinies despite being kin, following the old ways and not the laws of the Valar, here was not Nan El-moth, and not the forests of East Beleriand. The ways of the Ñoldor were different.

And Idril. He dared not envision her eyes turning hard on him once more, with disdain or fear. Her mouth quavering in disgust. Maeglin shuddered again at the thought. He had to bear it all in silence, and look elsewhere. _Caniel,_ the name sifted through his thoughts. The maiden of the House of Ecthelion had been watching him at times, or so Maeglin observed. And then, his cousin was not one to let such details go unnoticed. Relentlessly she would tease him on the obvious regard Caniel lately showed towards the prince, and each time his insides flared with the hidden hurt such words caused. Words urging him into the arms of another, when what he craved was right before him. _Unattainable._ He sighed, placing the blade down for it to cool after its most recent quenching.

"Cousin!" he heard then, and his head snapped towards the voice. Both joy and dread filled him at the sight of her face. Idril had made it her task to regularly pass by the smithy where her friends labored to bring them refreshments around midday. Presently she shuffled towards Maeglin, her hips swaying under her simple but clinging white dress, an intricately woven basket on her arm. _Avert your eyes, damn you, _Maeglin chided himself for the thousandth time.

"Berry cakes and red wine today, courtesy of Túre." The head palace cook was revered for her sweet cakes and pastries.

His heart sank at the sight of her eyes, regarding him with warmth. His own black ones were unguarded but for a moment as Maeglin said, "You seem festive, cousin."

Idril shrugged. "Indeed I am. I have just come from the granaries. Our crops have been plentiful this year. It is enough to cover the slight loss we had the year before." Then as he smiled at her, Idril regarded his fair face, the slight sheen on his brow from the heat, his coal-black eyes. She seemed to ponder. "When are you leaving for the Northern range?" Indeed, soon Maeglin would set on his first expedition to the Echoriath with Tanwetamo and their guild. They would pursue their search for lodes to further the smithing efforts in Gondolin.

"On the morrow." He had not expected her to ask. The prince had hoped it would be a good respite from all that had begun to plague him. And, sadly he thought, from her. But still, he would have said his farewells.

"So soon! And you said nothing," Idril scolded lightly, a forefinger pressed to his chest. "Will you walk with me in the gardens later?"

They had done so in regular fashion during the past months when time allowed. Though glad at first, Maeglin now found their time together both blissful and agonizing. It was the main contradiction of his existence. Belatedly, he knew he could never refuse her.

"Will it gain your forgiveness?" he smiled wearily, attempting a light jest.

"Mayhaps," Idril returned, beaming a smile that leveled him. "Oh, but I forgot to mention one detail."

Maeglin crossed his arms, noticing her mirthful gaze. He had come to know her quite well. "Which is?"

Idril bit her lip, her bearing as that of someone about to ask a grand favor. "I need your aid with the high tapestries in the council room. Everyone is busy and I have no aid to take them down. You are much taller than I, and-"

Her cousin laughed gleefully, her manner endearing. "You make use of me yet again!" he said in good humor. "Worry not, you shall have my aid. And then we may go on our walk."

"Splendid! Send word for me at the palace once you finish here." With this Idril said her farewells to the others and set on her way, leaving the prince beleaguered and lost, and with the realization that he had ruined a blade by leaving it far too long inside the forge.

* * *

Dusk was upon them by the time they finished the work in the council room. They had then swiftly changed and wrapped themselves in light cloaks, and now the pair walked together in silent companionship on a known path. They passed through crowds, bridges, and cobblestone paths to lush green gardens. The pair stopped at times near great sprinkling fountains to feel the mist of freshwater on their skin.

"And when will you return?" Idril asked as they kept to their slow stride.

Maeglin hesitated. "Does it matter?"

"It matters, to me." She smiled looking his way.

Maeglin kept his gaze forward, brow furrowing. "In three weeks' time." _Would that it were longer._

"Then you will have returned in time for the Gates of Autumn!"

Maeglin grinned. "Does this entail more silent observation?"

Idril threw her head back in musical laughter. "Nay, oh sullen prince, this one brings merriment and wine."

"I will consider it," he smiled a wolven smile, feeling somewhat livelier than before. He found his spirits often thrived in the presence of her light manner.

Their steps took them to a shadowed glade where a rich bed of grass spread upon the ground. All life about them still donned its summer garments, and the land was barely into its first days of autumn.

"This appears to be a good place," Idril uttered after a while, her sheer silver dress twirling about her in a light pirouette.

Maeglin agreed, his heart in hinges at the sight of her. "Indeed," he replied and descended onto the grass cross-legged. His back rested against an obliging tree trunk, his study book in hand.

Idril descended beside him, eyes closing as she raptly listened to the music of dancing leaves, the murmur of a nearby fountain. She soon lay down onto the soft grass, facing the sky through the gentle sweeping of the branches above.

"Are you still caught in those ores?" the maiden asked after some time spent in amicable silence.

"Yes," Maeglin replied absentmindedly, relieved the lecture helped anchor him somewhat. He could have refused, should have shunned her company. But selfishly he never did, and felt all the more despicable for it.

Idril turned and was now resting on her elbows with her chin in her palm, silently regarding her cousin.

Sensing her eyes on him, Maeglin lifted his gaze.

"What is it, cousin?"

"Nothing of import, cousin," she smiled. They had taken to calling each other such in teasing. "Gratitude for your aid, earlier," Idril reached and placed a small hand on his knee.

Taking a deep breath, Maeglin nodded. "Speak nothing of it." Her hand lingered, and he casually shifted away from the touch.

Idril suddenly rose to a sitting position and then stood to her feet as his eyes followed her. She began humming a gentle tune that soon filled the silence of the glade without. The most beautiful sounds Maeglin ever heard washed over him in peaceful waves mellowing his senses, uncoiling the twisted knots of longing in her presence. His head resting against the tree trunk he watched her, his features shuttered. _The last time, this should be the last time I do this._

Idril danced with swaying movements as she sang, and her feet seemed to barely touch the soft bed of grass.

Maeglin admired her, so lost in her golden brilliance. He desired much of her and loathed himself more. _Kin, she is kin._

Eyes closing, he prayed she would cease this and pondered whether to rise and leave before, Valar forbid, his true regard showed in his gaze.

Idril sang a gentle ode, an ancient tune in remembrance of another time, years of light spent in Valinor. A time before the Grinding Ice. And still, she danced before him, unaware of his trials.

It was strange indeed, this curse. At times all he craved was to hold her close, to protect her from all and any harm; but then there were times when he felt a steady, fierce urge to crush her body to his and keep her trapped until the need subsided; the thought always came with shame and scorn upon the recollection.

"What is it you sing of?" Maeglin asked barring his thoughts, looking willfully to the winding foliage above. He had not seen the light of Valinor. The words he heard were meaningful but held foreign visions.

Idril interrupted her song and turned to face him. A kind smile was on her face. "Of loss. And love. That which you also know."

Idril wondered why indeed she opted for this particular song of all. But it had felt right. As right as it did to be in his presence, as right as it felt to dance with him as a witness. An unfamiliar vibrancy trapped her, stirring a foreign warmth. It tugged at her, and for curiosity and another feeling Idril failed to discern, she pursued. "Is it not?"

Maeglin considered avoiding to speak of it. Loss he had known, far more than most. And love? There and then, the answer was before him. The simplest confession spilled, a crashing wave against forgotten shores. "It is," he said, returning her gaze.

Idril felt much less glad and content than before. "And what is she like, the one who owns your heart?" she asked lightly, wishing to be unaffected. Could it be Caniel?

Maeglin strove for an answer. It was not the easiest of tasks, mustering the most suitable way to speak of what he barely dared to admit, even to himself. "She is... kind, and willful. None can surpass her good heart, and seldom have I seen such gentleness." He knew he ought to cease his rambling, but his words heeded him not. "I can think of little else lately, other than holding her to me. How she would feel. With each passing day, the thought lingers, and it will not leave me be."

Idril blinked. "Oh... but then you do seem quite besotted," she teased though her smile seemed tighter, her graceful dance bringing her closer to him.

His eyes appeared even darker, no light in them at all. "It appears so."

"Is she fair?" Idril wondered, her curiosity peaked.

"Yes, she is fair," the raven-haired elf replied distractedly, eyes taken with how her shapely thighs moved through the light folds of her gown. He lowered himself on his back upon the bed of grass. Part of him knew he was a coward. The other beat him with reason. _Kin._ "The fairest among our kind."

Her mirth sank, but Idril chose not to dwell on it. "Oh Maeglin, you love! Does she know?" the maiden ended her dance and shifted closer, lowering onto her knees as she stared into his face. Her heavy golden hair brushed his arm.

She saw Maeglin look away, and found it strange. His words had been honest but sounded somewhat regretful. Did the one he pined for not return the same? "I imagine she would fall at your feet, the fine oddity that you are," his cousin jested boldly either way. The possibility of such an outcome was not completely laughable, considering her cousin was rather intriguing in his pale dark resplendence. And his character was of incredible steadfastness and bravery. Maidens must have noticed. Some she knew definitely have.

"She does not know," Maeglin added facing her again. "And I fear telling her."

Idril was drawn to his forlorn gaze. "Often fear is the sole obstacle in the way of fulfillment," she uttered, unsure why his apparent melancholy affected her. But it did, and worryingly so.

"Not this time," her cousin replied, looking at her strangely, or so Idril thought.

And she wondered at the meaning of his words, and the shadow which lately rarely ever left his eyes.

As Maeglin watched her, his mind betrayed him. It would be so simple to reach around her neck, gently pull her close, and...

_You fool, you utter fool_, he shook the thought away.

Idril was about to ask his meaning when her cousin sprang from his position with one fluid movement, fast enough to leave her startled, her wide eyes following him. "Maeglin?"

"Forgive me, I recalled there are overdue duties at the forge I must see to, ere I leave," her cousin uttered hastily, setting forward before she could consider a reply.

"Wait,-" Idril called after him to no avail. "Your tome!"

_The last time, _the raven-haired elf thought grimly, his strides faster with every step.

Idril looked to his lithe retreating form, then to the first star adorning the skies. Why had he departed so harried? What could she have done?

_May the sun shine on your path, _she wished him either way, hoping it would.


	5. Deepening

The prospecting company set their vision forward, a strong icy wind lashing against their faces. Before them, drowned in greens and yellows stood the vast valley of Tumladen, wherein the hidden city proudly hailed, white in the sun. Ondolindë, as it was called in the language of the Ñoldor, was the very image of Tirion upon Túna whence Turgon wrought its shape in remembrance of the first home of his kin.

The group now standing at the very heights of the Northern range of the Encircling Mountains made an array of both young and more experienced prospectors. Tanwetamo, Maeglin, and Mercion held the lead.

An intelligently devised system of placement had stout and stocky ponies follow, laden with larger tools and the needed provisions fit for weeks worth of travel in the mountains. This was done in such a way that the mounts were not overburdened, and could easily carry long distances. Each member of the group held their own weapons and utensils about themselves. Some wore the coat and garb of their Houses upon their breast. A small number of palace guards accompanied them, a mere precaution of numbers. For though the encircled vale lay hidden from foreign and treacherous eyes, the depths of the mountains could always hold unforeseen obstacles.

The travelers climbed higher as their boots deftly trod upon the stony mountain paths. Upon noticing what lay ahead Maeglin slowed his stride, and with wider and steadier steps approached and took his place on the surface of a flat cliff overlooking the valley. The air was different about this place. Looking ahead, he saw his destiny unfold, as Maeglin had in his mind many times before. He saw it in white walls and lofty towers wrought with growing wreaths of rich green ivy. And to serve this place, become his home, was what he presently desired most. To keep it safe and enduring in the face of harm, protected from the devastating wars wreaking havoc on the outside world.

But these noble aspiring thoughts only lasted for so long, and the grasp of a more selfish thought surfaced in his mind. It came as though in mockery of his grand designs. A thought, and a longing, that the son of Eöl wished to be rid of. Her eyes, when he had hastily left, still burned in his memory. Maeglin knew he had been too sudden and callous in the manner of his departure. But it had been imperative he left, before possibly acting on those damning impulses or Valar knew what else. Still, Maeglin thought it best to seek and make amends with his cousin once they returned to the hidden city. Idril held no blame, no more than the brazen sun did for scorching the land with its fire. His sight set on the white walls amidst a sea of green. _I think... I think I may well and truly be in love with her, _he said to any grand design who would hear this unspoken confession. Maeglin shivered with dread and hoped there was enough strength in his blood to handle this new pressing predicament in silence and with grace. _No,_ the darkness spoke then, chilling his heart. _You merely desire her. Lowly, base, and unworthy._ Maeglin shook the thought away. _I desire her happiness. _But her touch lingered in his thought, and rendered his nights restless. Naked limbs and peaked flesh, visible through wet silk. Maeglin shuddered and willed the revolting thought away along with everything it made him feel.

Then a swift wave of bitterness came upon him, and he saw his father again, in his last moments. The curse. How terrifying he had been in his pride, and so weak in his desperation that he had brought about the ruin of his own family. And yet, that blood ran through his son just as well, the starlight legacy of the Sindar. Maeglin would not renounce it. It was a part of him, just as his Noldorin heritage, though oft it now seemed there was a raging war between the two.

But he was being unfair again, his mind chided. Maeglin had seen the whispers of regret in the shadowed eyes of Eöl, as his mother lay wounded in the arms of his son. Maeglin knew and remembered the strong bond between his parents, close-knit for many years. The kin of king Turgon, a Noldo no less, had been the sole being in existence able to sway the darker moods and at times unwavering decisions of Eöl. And his father had held his mother in honor, despite dwelling far from the lavish style of grand settlements. No, his father had welcomed his sentence, hateful though he had been in the end towards his own blood. A contradiction was the fate of his family, and a grander one still was his own.

With a pang of grief, another vision appeared before his eyes. Of his father patiently explaining the makings of an ore of precious ilk which Maeglin had discovered on one of their travels together. There had been a rare show of pride on Eöl then, and Maeglin would ever hold it as a treasured memory.

He had let himself wander far again. This was no time for idle musing. He looked to the skies, marveling anew at the sight set before him.

The disc of the sun lay partly hidden beneath clouds of dusk, bathing the ether in colorful light. Shades streaked the firmament, ranging from mysterious amethyst to deep, rich ruby reds, to vivid amber and celandine. The vale wore a mantle of gold as shafts of light fell onto the plains. He was thankful. His darkness had receded before this splendor, and Maeglin gazed back to where his kin lay resting.

It was time to continue. The travelers had yet a good way before them until the company would reach the grey ways and peaks of the inner Northern range. There, camps would be set for predefined periods of time in each area and they would set to explore, seeking places potentially rich in materials to support the proffering of the city smithies.

The group steadily resumed their journey deeper within the natural circle of the mountainous walls surrounding the vale. In their search the company kept their senses alert for the murmurs of nature and the elements surrounding them, climbing and descending the many lower peaks and inspecting the terrain.

A mighty host they seemed, though their efforts were purely to seek and discover. They had left their horses in a set location designed for that purpose on the lower side of the plateau.

Mercion strode ahead, his powerful gait unwavering on the rough terrain, his searching eyes set upon the surrounding cliffs and crags. His hand was ever on the handle of his embellished axe, a force of habit. He walked clad in a long blood-red tunic and black trousers. His cloak billowed behind him and a scabbard could be seen at his belt. The stoutness of the House led by Rog was in his bearing, with his square shoulders and well-knit frame. This elf still carried himself as gracefully as any of the Eldar but his nearly defiant vehemence stood sharp in his gait. His dark hair ran loose and wavy down his back. His azure eyes now set on the prince of Gondolin, walking not far from him. "Do you reckon this region will yield what we seek?" Mercion saw the other turn to look at him. How utterly unsettling he was, this stranger, though skilled enough in the arts of smithing to gain his hidden respect. Part twilight Sinda and part Noldo, this elf was a spawn of circumstance, as far as Mercion was concerned. Strange and foreign, not to be trusted. He would watch this one closely, no matter the sway he apparently had over others. A memory of golden hair and a soft hand in his own flickered among his thoughts.

"The coloring on the stones in this area seems to suggest it," Maeglin replied conversationally, looking to Tanwetamo to see his thought, but no addition came from the master smith. Maeglin walked among them clad in a dark green tunic hemmed with silver at the collar and sleeves. A black leather belt cinched his waist where dark Anguirel hung in its silver scabbard. He was arrayed in a similar fashion to Mercion, his pale features searching as he inspected the area with a sharp gaze.

They had traveled through a narrow vale between the mountain peaks for much of the day, and would soon set camp and wait for dawn to move forward. Their animal companions needed to regain their strength.

The first few days and nights passed uneventfully as the group ventured deeper into the recesses of the mountain range. It was colder here, and the wind blew mercilessly when they climbed upon the different peaks but they were prepared. The natural resistance and hardiness of their bodies before the elements aided them. For unlike ones they would eventually come to know as Men, they did not tire easily and could traverse vast spans of difficult terrain with little trouble.

Ten days passed in this manner, with smaller successes along the road as minor deposits were found of silver and gold ore. These places were marked for the future. When dusk was nigh Tanwetamo gave the signal to raise camp within a vale surrounded by steep crags. All knew their tasks and took to them, either by raising protective enclosures to sleep in or by starting fires.

Maeglin looked to the unwelcoming crests, rising dark and silent against the skies. As his eyes roamed listlessly, he noticed a hollow within the slope of one of the surrounding cliffs. Dropping his pack, he called to Tanwetamo.

"What is it you see, prince?" This was the first time they had taken this route and any new possibility was worth exploring.

"Set your sight ahead. I think that may deserve our interest." He pointed towards the very place.

Tanwetamo looked to where Maeglin showed, and his interest was peaked indeed. Turning, he motioned for Mercion and a few others to join. "Let us climb for a closer view."

The group reached the narrow crevice and saw it was wide enough for one of lithe frame to pass through. Maeglin entered first, followed by the rest. It was dark and humid inside. Their sharp eyes discerned a wide cavern, possibly running longer than their sight could determine at this time. There was no sign of life, but a curious scent lingered in the musty air.

Maeglin and Tanwetamo climbed through to one side, nimbly sprinting across boulders and debris. They drew closer to one of the walls. Maeglin placed his fingers upon the cold surface, tracing thin, dark grey lines which shimmered encased within the stone walls. His eyes widened.

"Iron!" he looked to Tanwetamo. "So much of it!" Indeed as the master craftsman inspected the wall his features lit in wonder. Everywhere were signs of a rich seam of what could only be hard iron. This they needed, and had sought for a long time. It was not only used for building weapons and armor but was required for structural enhancements to the city.

The others had also noticed the clear signs of the element and were glad, seeing their efforts already rewarded.

Tanwetamo placed a strong hand on the prince's shoulder. "This find is yours. Let us mark it and-" before he could continue his thought, a powerful sundering was heard.

Heads swiveled to the source, only to fall upon an immense beast of terrible appearance, lumbering in the dark, and making its way to them. Its skin was layered with patches of greenish scales, its head wide and misshapen. It stood tall and wide as a threatening colossus. Its maw revealed sharp jagged teeth, and a green liquid traced from it down its chin. It roared and tumbled forward, its heavy limbs crashing through stone with little effort.

The group evaded its thrashing as they could with their light sprints but the beast followed, its milky eyes set on the intruders.

"All to me!" Tanwetamo called, his voice stern and sure as the elves all drew their weapons. They would attempt to subdue the beast in an orderly fashion.

Maeglin tried to think. Eöl had told him of this. Fell creatures inhabited the hidden recesses of the world, and though sparse, there were chances that one would stumble upon such. He tried to recall the descriptions... the one before them most closely resembled a troll, the cave-dwelling kind. Their strength surpassed their wit, and though Maeglin had never seen one in the flesh before, his father had told stories of encountering and defeating one. They were mostly blind, these beasts, but followed movement and scent.

Just then the troll roared again, its powerful thrusts into the walls and floor of the cave unleashing a steady avalanche of rock. A few of the elves managed to escape the enclosure through the narrow opening, but some were trapped by the falling debris and could go no further.

Anguirel drawn, Maeglin was running towards Tanwetamo, who had just been struck heavily by a falling boulder. The master smith now stood on his knees in a dazed attempt to rise, bleeding profusely from a gash to the side of his head. His weapon was a good distance away. With little thought in terms of precaution, Maeglin took flight from one sharp outcropping of rock and soared, landing straight onto the back of the beast.

Enraged, the troll tried to reach and catch the elf but Maeglin fluidly vaulted and evaded its grasp. _'Between the eyes, my son. That is where it is most vulnerable. And the back of its head,' _Eöl's voice sounded in his mind. With one last leap, holding his black sword by the hilt with both hands the elf slid its sharp blade straight through the base of its skull. The troll shook terribly and the raven-haired elf had little time before a heavy arm shot upward, in a confusing array of desperate movement, striking him with the full force of a falling mountain. He was flung to the side, crashing into the Eastern wall of the cave, and did not rise again.

* * *

He felt cold drops of rain upon his skin. As Maeglin opened his eyes he was splayed onto a makeshift pallet. He attempted to rise but jolted at the sting of pain the action brought him. _It seems I live._

"You have awoken," came a steady and relieved voice. As his vision cleared Maeglin discerned Cesindion hovering just above him. The appointed healer accompanying their quest smiled, now busied preparing a fragrant bowl of sweet-scented liquid.

"All my limbs seem to be in place," the raven-haired elf tried jestingly as the healer placed the bowl to the side and assisted him rise to a sitting position. His head hurt unbearably, and so did the act of breathing.

"Indeed they are, and all will be well though you had been nearly lost to us beneath a layer of stone, and now boast a broken arm as well as a crushed knee."

Maeglin sighed. He then noticed his right arm was secured with a splint and wrapped over many times with sturdy white cloth. His left leg was treated similarly. A cold, harsh wind blew through the narrow vale where the company had taken a respite.

"How is he?" Maeglin heard a new voice, and then met the eyes of Tanwetamo.

"Awake, master smith," the healer supplied, at which Maeglin smiled his thanks when he was handed the warm drink the healer had prepared. Its taste was mild and strength seeped into him gradually with every sip.

"Gratitude for your care, Cesindion," the young elf spoke.

Tanwetamo seated himself near the pallet, his gaze set ahead, to where their road would lead them down the slopes and further across the lower levels of terrain. Maeglin observed that his brow bore sutures. "We thought that wondrous deed was to be the end of you, in truth. But I see you bear the strength and valor of the house of Fingolfin. You weathered this well."

Maeglin tried to gather his thoughts, still muddled by his long sleep. Memories resurfaced of the creature and the splintering sensation in his body when he struck the stone wall of the cave.

And yet, this sat ill with him. His state was now a hindrance, and the elf did not want to be the main cause for tardiness. "Master Tanwetamo, the weather will soon turn all the colder, and the winds more powerful in their fury. It will be difficult for our aiding beasts as well as ourselves. You need not wait for me," Maeglin urged as he curled then uncurled the fingers of his good hand in an attempt to gain full awareness of his body. He soon found that a dull pain was ever-present no matter how he stood or what he moved. "I can follow behind, at a slower pace, with the help of one other," he said either way.

Somewhere an eagle cry pierced the evening skies. Tanwetamo looked upward, then to his most gifted smith. "We are in no great haste. Further, you have saved my life and possibly others' with your brave, though reckless, attempt. I am ever grateful, as are they. We travel together."

Maeglin felt a warming stir in his chest at the words. How far they have come, from mere strangers. "How fare the others? And yourself?" the raven-haired elf wondered. He saw the artisan did not look too worn, but his bearing was rigid.

"Some have suffered lighter wounds. And I am still in a better state than you," he said solemnly, though the spark of jest was visible in his eyes. "Rest, and be healed," he bade, "we return in due time to the city."

And so, after a night's rest the group slowly set onward, and by the following day Maeglin was able to walk, the healing rest brought on by the draughts having aided immeasurably. He walked with a cane the healer had hastily crafted, until they reached the place where their horses were tended by ones who stayed behind for this purpose. From there the Gondolindrim descended towards the wide plains of Tumladen, their sight set on their home.

* * *

Once they crossed the city gates word was sent to the king. And there was preparation for the company to be received in audience, to present the outcome of their journey to Turgon.

After dismounting the prospectors headed straight to the King's Tower. They passed the gates adorned on either side with the brilliance of the trees Glingal and Belthil, wrought in memory of the Two Trees of Valinor, which the people of Turgon held dear.

The silver tapered doors to the king's reception hall opened to reveal Maeglin, standing straight and tall though his bearing appeared somewhat strained. He advanced supported by his cane, followed by Tanwetamo and the rest of their company.

Maeglin looked before him, to the dais where Turgon sat upon his throne. His gaze then fell on golden hair and fair features. Idril was seated to the left of her father, her gaze blank and formal. She had not met his eyes. Maeglin felt a stir of unease, and decided he would seek for her and settle the strangeness of their last meeting as soon as time allowed.

"It is good to see you all returned, sound of body and mind. Relay the findings of this prospecting quest," Turgon began in a steady voice.

Idril, who had a difficult time standing still all of a sudden, saw a flash of pain across his face as her cousin bowed slightly in greeting. Then her eyes flickered to the cane.

"My lord, rich veins of hard iron and many minor ones of gold we had found in the Northern range. The details and measurements are etched in these scrolls," Maeglin said as a guard took the proffered documents and handed them to the king.

Turgon nodded and regarded his sister-son. "You have done right, I have heard, both by your purpose and that of this company. I have been appraised of the setback you encountered."

Maeglin listened with true interest. He felt eyes boring into him and his intuition guessed who it was. His heart was angry in his breast. He somewhat wished she had not seen him as he was now, so weak and barely standing. For whatever reason, the notion irked him.

"And I see by your state, that the price could have been high indeed. For service such as this," Turgon continued, "I wish to gift you the possibility to impart your leadership and skill unto others, to further our community. The iron mines which you discovered I would place in your care, should you wish it. You may choose those of our people to follow you, to man it, and run it with your leave."

"Your majesty," the younger elf bowed his head, his eyes alight in astonishment. His own mine to run? The materials one could devise with such bountiful resources! Before he could mull over it all, his words formed and were spoken. "I duly accept this gift and the duty that comes with it." Silently, despite his sorrow at the thought, he also thanked his father.

"Gladly do I ordain this rule, Maeglin son of Eöl and my sister_._ And further," Turgon continued, and his mien was kind, "Immense gratitude to you and this company for that which your pursuits have brought Gondolin."

"We serve as best we can, my liege," the prince followed.

"May your body strengthen soon," Turgon added, and upon further discussion with Tanwetamo on details and other formalities the audition came to an end.

Maeglin shared a few brief words with the master smith before his gaze swept across the hall, seeking the one he most dearly wished to speak to. But she had gone, and it left him somewhat disheartened. Thus Maeglin decided to retreat to his chambers, to change and ponder on how to explain his unusual past behavior to his kin.

He had not been in his chambers long, when a light knock sounded at the entrance.

Sighing, the prince went towards the doors, grimacing with every other step. But this too would pass soon. _It is worth all we achieved._ It was with these thoughts that he reached for the handle. His eyes fell on bright azure ones. She stared at him, still and determined, her hands clasped before her. Her flowing blue shift fell gracefully over her body.

"Cousin," he spoke and felt foolish both for his bewilderment and the sudden barrenness of his mind. "Well met," he added hastily. Of all the first words he could have spoken to her upon their meeting.

"You look well," Idril uttered, her expression unreadable.

Unsure of what to say Maeglin only smiled, but then shook his head, recalling the basics of etiquette as he made way for her to enter.

"I came to see how you were faring," Idril turned to him once inside the pillared chamber. "And to ask if you require aid?" she paused, her eyes taken with how so much paler than usual her cousin appeared.

Maeglin found the words kind and her decision to come see him even more so, but his promise to keep a distance resurfaced in his mind. "I can fare on my own, Idril. I should do well with the care provided in the healing wing," he said, proceeding to a soft divan. There he sat down with the intent of removing his boots. It proved a good distraction.

Idril saw him struggle with movement and before Maeglin knew it, she was kneeling before him on the soft carpeted floor. "For instance, aid with this," she murmured smiling, placing her hands gently over his good hand to still it.

"Idril, truly, you need not do this," came his wary and strangled voice as gentle hands nimbly worked to remove one boot, then the other.

"Hush. It is my wish," his cousin spoke swiftly, her head bent downward, her eyes on her task.

Having Idril on her knees before him felt strange, but then again, it was the first time Maeglin had seen her this way.

"I am relieved you are back," she confessed then as Maeglin looked to her, the golden dawn strung on the floor of his chambers. Idril placed her hands on his shoulders as she rose before her cousin.

He sensed the maiden had many questions which she strove to keep to herself, at least for the time being. "As am I, Idril," he told her. Where were all those crafted words he knew? His mind felt empty. But then the elf again recalled his own determination to lessen these moments between them, and shuttered himself swiftly. 

A glimmer was in her eyes. "My father has presented you with a heavy, burdensome gift. It is his wont to do so," she shook her head.

"I did not think myself worthy of the honor." And he truly felt it. His less than wholesome thoughts with regards to his kin were proof of such. Maeglin averted his eyes but soon felt warm fingers under his chin, tilting his gaze back to hers.

"I can think of none worthier," Idril said with conviction.

Her fingers still held his chin, and in a haze, his own fingers were wrapping around her thin wrist. Maeglin knew he should pull away, but he had missed her so. He _wanted_ to keep away. But what if _she_ came to him? What of times such as this?

He felt her pulse quickening in his grip. Her lips were parted, her eyes encased azure skies. Maeglin felt her begin to retreat. Her slight fingers slid gently over his skin before her hand dropped to her side, leaving him bare and kindled. He sensed a slight tremor of her fingers, digging into his shoulder, and warmth filled his chest at her closeness. He faltered. He would tell her. He had to, no matter the outcome. Nothing could be worse than this. He would be free of it. "Idril-," his gaze softened, and need briefly flared through his dark gaze.

"Now you are weary, and I presume you would welcome the rest," she abruptly broke into his utterance with a lighter tone, "But when next I see you, you are to regale me with the entirety of your adventure."

His mouth had closed and Maeglin merely watched his cousin, the momentary lapse of sanity broken. Valar bless her.

"And then, you will join us for the Gates of Autumn within the week, where you will acquaint yourself with how our people make merry. I insist, prince."

A dark eyebrow rose in response as he attempted to mirror the mischief in her voice. "You have my future laid before me I see," he tried, knowing she enjoyed his dry quips. And Idril did indeed burst into a short, breathy laugh before her features became rather wistful. Agonizingly slowly, her hand slid away from his shoulder.

"I think it would do us all good. It may bear reminding that we can all find peace, and healing," she added truthfully, and the conviction in her words drew him as a lost wave to the sea.

"Ever the wise one. You know my new duties will leave little free time for much else." The thought both saddened and filled him with relief. Time away from her was necessary.

"Which is all the more reason for you to bide it with us while you are able." Idril smiled kindly before she began to move away from him, but her eyes widened when his good arm reached around her waist, drawing her closer. She looked at her cousin, and without thought threw her arms around his shoulders. Though astonished, she was gladdened to see this habitually reserved elf showing such feeling, and the maiden wondered little at the tightness of his hold. It felt as soothing as a bright summer day, to be so close to him.

"Forgive me, for my manner of leaving last time we spoke," he said, his face muffled into her. She was so warm. Unbearably warm. But it felt so good a sigh nearly broke from him. "I was not myself."

Idril ran a hand through his dark hair. "I had done nothing to upset you, then?"

"No," Maeglin looked upwards at her, shaking his head. "Never. It was I. My first journey in unknown places... I was quite restless," he lied.

She dipped her head in understanding. "All is well," she said looking out the open window. "I leave you to rest," Idril added dutifully. The mountains loomed ahead, streaked with the red light of dusk. "I will see you on the morrow."

Maeglin only nodded, and employing the full strength of his will, released his cousin. He felt empty when she drew away.

He stood still for a good while after she left him. The guilt combined darkly with the delight of what Maeglin thought he had seen in her eyes. Late into the night, when his mind relinquished its hold on him he finally drifted to rest, the faint scent of elanor lingering on his garb and in his senses.


	6. Reason

The Gates of Autumn event was to be held that day, and with the celebratory evening falling over the city came bonfires lit on various points of the city walls. In the full coming night, folk would celebrate living nature. Upon long wooden tables was an abundance of fruit and baked goods, as well as other samples of the year's harvest. These arrangements lined the squares of the city where all could partake. Varieties of sweet and savory pumpkin prepared in different ways, yellow pears and red apples along with golden quinces made colorful additions to the seasonal assortment. Sweet confectionery and pastries could be seen as well. Dark, heady wine had been poured in long glass decanters, and cups to serve were available on the tables. Music hailed from grander and lesser squares alike throughout Gondolin and the whole city was aglow this night.

Mercion had reached the Square of the King and was seeking for the ones he had agreed to meet with here. Lamps of beautiful warm light adorned the large oak trees lining the wide space, reflecting in the pure waters of the great well within the square. His bright gaze focusing, the elf saw Idril a little way across from him. She was in the company of Alime and Úfárion, who were smiling fiendishly at each other, which usually meant they were preparing to take their leave. Mercion shook his head. Their eagerness to be with one another most if not all of the time made them ever seem as unruly and carefree children. Then again, they were truly young elves compared to others of their kin, both having recently reached the age of fifty. They were eager to marry and begin a life together, which was understandable. In truth, he envied them at times. Bearing these thoughts his steps took the elf straight towards the daughter of Turgon who greeted him with a smile.

"Mercion," Idril inclined her head in greeting, truly glad to see him.

His sunset tunic hemmed with gold thread shone from the warm light of the lamps, his hair falling in dark waves around his face. He was truly admirable, albeit somewhat haughty in bearing.

"What fell and fair deeds have you been invested to?" she jested.

"Dance with me," Mercion said without preamble, regaling her with an enchanting smile as his arm went straight around her middle. He gently tugged an amused Idril closer and led her graciously forward, and they swayed among other fair folk kindled in dance. The light, flaring sleeves of her carnelian gown flew elegantly about them as they twirled together. Idril looked a true Maia with her rich hair loosely flowing past her waist, her bared shoulders, round and pale against the crimson patterned hem of her dress. She followed his lead, being used to his movements. The pair had known each other since their early youth, and there had been many moments such as this between them. So many, they barely even counted.

"You have made yourself quite scarce recently," Idril told him merrily.

"Much work to be done in our world, princess," Mercion smiled.

"The world of smithies and forges, mines and smelting. Truly fascinating in the results it yields," Idril admitted with a sly smile, "though the interest ends there," she grinned in a way which kindled mirth in his own face. She could always be free of spirit and more so loose of tongue in the company of Mercion. Idril knew he would never betray her confidence, no matter the recent happenings between them or the ones concerning her kin. "And you all have your work laid out for you, brave warrior explorers of Gondolin," she drawled in the same light tone, "Maeglin told me as much," she finished, not without noticing the brief gloom on the other's face. Then she recalled Maeglin was to arrive as well, as she had agreed with her cousin to meet for the festivities. And she had not seen him yet.

"Why do you hold him in such ill favor?" Idril asked in a sudden change of topic. But it irked her, and she wanted to hear it from Mercion himself. When he fell silent, she added, "My cousin."

His mirth faded slightly. "Must we speak of your cousin now?"

Idril sighed. "I dislike seeing this opposition between my own kin and one of my oldest friends," she entreated.

He swept her closer, and Idril saw another light in his eyes. "Merely friendship by your choice alone, not mine," Mercion said meaningfully, the words more bitter than she would have expected.

Idril lowered her head between them. "Mercion..."

"Do not speak of it," her friend shook his head, "I know what you would say," he finished sadly, though his smile held. How to tell her that he would wait? "I only,-" then Mercion ceased, seeing her eyes focus past his shoulder, and twirling them in dance noticed why. Her cousin had just made his appearance within the courtyard, Caniel on his arm.

Mercion led Idril away. "See? Your kin is faring well, and in the best of care, it seems," he said with a roguish smile which only succeeded to displease her.

Idril knew her friend harbored a special appreciation for the prince, but whether anything would come of it depended on both. Was she worried about him? Though Idril had teased him about this very subtly on quite a few occasions, Maeglin always kept silent with regards to her friend. Idril figured it was in his nature, and recalled his confession about the one he held dear. The breezy wind now beat against his well-knit frame, sending strands of black hair wandering as Caniel seemed to regale him with a tale, her arms making wide elegant gestures, one of her small hands touching his arm from time to time. His eyes were lit, and Maeglin was watching her intently, his hand propped against one of the tables.

"Idril?..." Mercion called to her. "You are elsewhere," he murmured, noticing her briefly absent gaze.

She looked back into his disappointed face. "I drifted away, forgive me," she tried just as the music came to an end, the harps and flutes mellowing. Her eyes flickered again to where Caniel and Maeglin were.

Mercion looked strangely at her before answering. "It is no matter, Idril," he said finally as he led her towards a table to retrieve their beverages. "It is no matter," he repeated when he witnessed the maiden eyeing her cousin and friend somewhat insistently. His mood clouded, and a foreboding crept into his mind. Mercion recalled the look he had seen on the dark elf during their outings. Watching her. But now her own behavior made little sense. Thus he fell into silence, and decided to observe from afar. His bright eyes shone into her own, the light of the closest fire dancing in them. "Shall we join them?" he asked, seeing as Caniel and Maeglin were leaving for one of the adjacent groves, drinks in hand. Why was she so discomfited?

"No-," Idril said quickly, her eyes following the retreating pair. Where could they possibly be heading to? She looked back to Mercion, whose face no longer showed the mirth from before. She shook her head in a smile. "No," she repeated though it sounded rather unconvinced, despite placing an arm around his neck. "Shall we offer our praise with another dance?" she urged.

While Mercion still felt rather disconcerted with regards to what he had seen, her offer was too tempting to refuse. So he relinquished his doubts for the moment, and brought Idril close to him again. "What else is there to do this evening?"

* * *

Maeglin was heading with swift steps to the Square of the King, where he was to meet his cousin and spend the evening at the festivities. She had wanted to show him the festival and regale him with tales of its meaning and traditions. Maeglin had not seen as much of her lately with his growing duties now taking precedence, which was well, or so his rational mind stressed. But it also brought about a deep, smoldering longing. He only wanted to see her face, to feel a mere touch of her skin, a brush of her golden hair.

His body had healed well and he now walked as sure and steady as before, clad in a tunic of black silk with a low collar and black trousers. His hair fell freely over his shoulders in nightly waves. He greeted some of those he met on his way, as since his dealings with the folk of the city had increased now more knew of him, and most considered the sister-son of Turgon a brave representative of the King's House. All had heard of his recent deeds, and the change in their eyes when they looked upon him showed a stark difference from the early beginnings.

Maeglin was about to reach the square, admiring the lamps strewn through the beautiful red and gold-leafed trees, when someone called his name.

"Alone you walk still, brave one?" a feminine voice inquired playfully.

Looking to his left, he saw Caniel. The niece of the High Lord Ecthelion was shimmering in a silver dress that hugged her slight waist, flaring over shapely hips. A thin silver circlet adorned with small crystal gems was set upon her brow, bright as morning dew against her lustrous hair. She was lovely no doubt, a fact not lost upon Maeglin, filled though he was with longing for the other. He waited for her to join him. Her silver eyes sparkled with mirth.

"Alone, yes, but not for long," he replied with a smile. "I was seeking Idril."

"Then our quest is the same. Come, let us find her together."

Maeglin obligingly offered her his arm, and they walked together upon the white marble pathways, now glimmering under the light of the lamps. Maeglin then thought of at least two vantage points on the highest levels of the city where the view tonight would no doubt be splendid. He felt the warmth of the maiden walking beside him, who had no qualms running her fingers lightly along his forearm. The elf recalled the words of his cousin, and how Caniel apparently harbored a kind of special consideration for him. He had seen a strange light in her eyes before, but could not place its nature.

"Here we are," Caniel led him to one of the tables laden with food and drink. "I urge you to try the wine, all have sworn by its fragrant, unique aroma this year."

"As the lady commands," Maeglin smiled at her, finding it hard to refuse, and he filled two crystal glasses with the burgundy liquid. He offered her the drink and took one sip himself, finding it indeed warming and good. "You speak the truth, Caniel," he concluded. "This might just be the best I have tasted."

"And better things yet there are to taste," the dark-haired elleth lulled looking away.

Maeglin might have raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could open his mouth Caniel placed a slender hand on his arm. "There she is!" she exclaimed, and turning, the elf saw Idril, and his heart dropped to his feet. She was dancing rather closely and intimately with none other than Mercion. The grip on his glass tightened, and his eyes clouded.

"She seems rather occupied, your cousin," Caniel said jestingly as she turned to Maeglin, only to be met with a hard stare. Her smile faded.

"Occupied," Maeglin bit rather harshly, and the maiden blinked at this sudden change in manner.

Taking his reaction as a sign of care and worry for his cousin, Caniel decided to attempt and placate. "Mercion is a valorous, honorable elf. He and Idril have been close companions since they were but younglings. He cares deeply for your cousin, and would never harm her."

Bile rose in his throat. Maeglin downed his wine and turned to refill his glass. _Rein yourself,_ his sense tried._ She is not yours. She never will be yours. You have no right. _Caniel. He must focus on Caniel. He threw one last furtive glance towards the dancing pair before turning to his dark-haired companion. She seemed uneasy and distraught, and it was all his doing. Maeglin regretted having allowed his weakness to seep through his bearing.

"Let us leave here, what say you?" he added in forced merriment, taking a decanter of wine in hand. The farther the better. All thoughts of meeting and spending the night with Idril thrown to the wind, he decided on a different course. He saw the brief astonishment followed by delight lighting the beautiful face before him.

"I know a good place," Caniel beamed at him, and not wasting another breath nearly pulled him after her towards their new destination.

Great was his surprise when they reached the very same spot Maeglin had used as a retreat countless times before. It was the hidden place with stairs leading high up on the last level of the House of the King. Not a soul passed through here now since all were partaking in the celebration below.

"I have been here before," Maeglin admitted, his eyes now set upon the full moon greeting them. It shone its silver brilliance over the white walls, casting the two elves in a ghostly light. He placed the decanter down near the marble balustrade.

Caniel smiled a sheepish smile and drew closer to the elf, now studying the skies.

When he looked to her again, the space between them had narrowed considerably. Maeglin had to admit she was indeed fairer than many, if not most, elf women he had seen. Thoughts of Idril on the bank of the lake stubbornly struck then, and he nearly cursed under his breath.

"You once told me my cousin was right concerning me. What did you mean?" he diverted his thoughts.

The blush that spread across her face gave her an even more alluring air, and Maeglin found himself admiring her lowered lashes, her parted lips. He reached and lightly caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"She beat us relentlessly with words concerning your kind nature," her finger reached and boldly slid down his chest. He made no move to deter her. "And spoke incessantly of your gentle manner," her other hand reached and shyly tucked a raven strand behind his ear.

The same darkness from before was taking hold, one he knew too well, try though he did to smother it. Perhaps it was the wine, but he wanted this. This he could have. Fruit not forbidden, but freely offered. _You feel nothing for her _his sane mind warned. Indeed, his heart and thoughts were full of the other, but how else to forget? How else to smother this unnatural regard? And this one was warm, and lovely and willing.

"We had seen little of you and did not heed her words at the time," Caniel was saying. "But Idril can be-," Caniel gasped as a strong arm brought her closer into a steel frame, "-quite convincing..." she finished. Caniel met his eyes then, having to look upward as Maeglin was taller than she. A shudder ran through her at the black flames she saw dancing within. "And then we met you, and learned she spoke true. Or at the very least, I did."

Half a smile now graced his lips. Caniel waited, unsure what he would do. A sigh escaped her when he leaned closer still, and she dared not move. Her eyes fluttered closed when she felt the tip of his nose nuzzling against her left ear. Her involuntary shiver caused her blush to deepen, and Caniel stood still and frozen in his grasp, her breathing become shallow, her body tense. She felt him inhaling her, and the hand Caniel placed on his chest curled into the silk of his tunic.

"Maeglin...," she whispered his name as she tilted her head, allowing better access to the crook of her neck. She felt the light pressure of warm lips, weakening her in the most pleasant of ways.

Though unused to it all the elf touched her in ways he had dreamed of touching Idril, and after a brief moment of hesitation, his lips parted further, slowly spreading warmth along the soft skin of her neck. He felt his own body responding, urging him ahead, for more. The hand holding her to him reached lower. His fingers splayed across the small of her back, bringing her even closer. His lips followed along her fine jaw, trailing light, searing kisses to her mouth.

When a forlorn whimper escaped her it suddenly woke him. Maeglin drew away and looked into her face, seeing her lost and flushed. It was not right. It was dishonorable and cruel to use her this way.

"Caniel,-" he began, attempting to regain his own labored breathing, watching her with a saddened mien as his hands slid to her shoulders. "We... we ought to return," he faltered for words. He saw the defeat and the dimming light in her eyes, the furious blush visible even in the faint light of the celestial body above them.

"Yes," the maiden swallowed then looked to her feet, understanding dawning.

The prince released her shoulders and took one step back.

"Certainly," she followed, and passed him in the following moment, pointedly avoiding his gaze. She descended the stairs with swift steps.

"Caniel, wait-," he called, guilt taking hold. Maeglin followed after her, cursing his lack of restraint, having upset and hurt her. Now he would have to make amends, though he knew not how. Somehow, he thought he must. But what had been most worrying was his failure to try and maintain his focus on someone else.

He followed the shimmer of her dress down into the gardens, through a labyrinth of high green hedges acting as sheltering walls. She was not difficult to find. Maeglin was at her side soon enough and took Caniel by the arm, halting her advance. "Caniel, I did not mean to do ill by you," he spoke coming to stand before her, feeling true remorse when he looked into her face.

"It is of no consequence, truly," the maiden said averting her gaze. She did not hide the hurt in her eyes.

"Caniel," he called gently, and waited until she met his eyes again. "Forgive me, it was rash of me to... I thought..." but then he found words were lacking. What had he thought? To avail himself of his true feelings for someone else? That could not be said. And she did not deserve it. "I thought you and I might be good together, but..."

Caniel shook her head in a bitter smile. "Please, Maeglin, you need not strive for words of comfort. I now have felt what I only suspected before. You are beholden to another." And her silver eyes shone with regret. "That is plain to see, plain to feel." She looked away from him again.

Maeglin opened his mouth to speak, but somehow his words were leaden. "Will you resent me for this?" he had to ask, desperate to mend the slight but unsure how. And then what if she told Idril? He inwardly groaned at his base foolishness.

Caniel looked to her feet as she spoke. "No, prince, I will not resent you. But let me tell you this," she followed, and the elf saw her face gain a solemnity he had never seen on Caniel before. "Whatever you are enduring, you ought to attempt honesty. Lest you hurt yourself, as well as others beyond a point of return."

He lowered his head, closed his eyes. "Forgive me, please." And he truly wished her to. This one was beautiful and wise, and despite his feelings, he had felt the stirring of desire when he touched her. No doubt she would be a perfect mate for one lucky enough to be with her. But she was not for him.

Caniel reached and placed a hand to his shoulder. "I will, for I see you are of good and noble manner, though a gloominess clouds your soul. I suppose, that you must face on your own."

He sighed heavily. "Dear Caniel, you are the most generous being I have ever known."

Caniel smiled wider, a shadow of her usual self returning. "Let us not speak of this again." She looked behind them. "I suppose I should return..." Then she looked back to Maeglin, and to his surprise took his arm. "Shall we find our wayward friends?"

Bewildered but eager to please, he nodded in agreement. "I would very much like that, Caniel of the Fountain."

* * *

They reached the Square of The King soon enough. The merriment had gotten much livelier in their absence with most attendees enraptured and caught in dance, their movements lined with colorful grace. Maeglin looked over the crowd gathered and caught indeed sight of Idril. She was flushed and swaying to the tune with swift feet, in complete opposition to her usual gentle movements. A memory of her dancing in the gardens resurfaced, and Maeglin had to rein himself before gaping too long. "So this is how the Gondolindrim make merry," he told Caniel, trying a smile.

"Do you wish to partake, prince Maeglin?" Caniel asked, her usual light and endearing manner returned.

He mulled over the option for a while, his eyes on Idril. "How does one do this?"

Caniel smiled and took his hand. "You bring me to you like so," she brought his arm around her waist.

Inside, he felt the miser again. If only he were free of this darkness. Then he could have...

"...and I place my hand here," Caniel interrupted his thought with her instructions. "And then you lead me towards the dancing group, and partners change mid tune. Let me show you the steps." And she did, which he picked with little difficulty and the innate gracefulness of his kind.

Soon they swayed together, and Maeglin saw his cousin a way ahead.

"Now, take heed for we are soon to change partners," Caniel was saying, and true enough she slipped from his arms and turned to be taken in dance by another. Maeglin turned as well and was met face to face with a dark-haired elleth he did not know. But following the others, he took her in his arms and they danced until the time came to change partners again. This was somewhat mellowing, and strangely unfitting considering what had happened earlier. He still felt the brimming guilt at his rash attempt with Caniel. He turned yet again to face his new dancing partner, and his breath caught.

"Idril," he greeted as his arm wound around her. The fire in her cheeks and her gleaming eyes quickened his heartbeat. Her beauty nearly leveled him. But then he saw her smile fading.

"I see you joined us, finally," the maiden said, though her tone was foreign to his ears.

"I meant to find you, but you were... occupied. With Mercion," Maeglin said, feeling an odd blend of guilt and envy as he recalled the sight of them together.

"And you were with Caniel," she said blankly.

He searched her eyes, noticed a change in them. And Idril seemed aloof, which unsettled him. She had never been this way before, not with him. No, he realized darkly, she had. In the beginning, when her dislike ruled her impression of him.

"I am here now," Maeglin said as he led them to the winding sounds of flutes, pushing away thoughts of the strange moment with Caniel. "And we are together, and you can tell me about this custom," he added and dared to bring her closer to him. One of his hands had unconsciously spasmed against her middle as he held her.

He saw his cousin fall silent, looking beyond his shoulder.

"Idril, what is troubling you?" the elf tried, unable to see her this way.

"Nothing, Maeglin. Nothing is the matter," she repeated.

He breathed a sigh. "You might not see it, but I do. What is it? I would help, if I can. I cannot bear to see you so restless."

"Then you are not obliged to," and with that his kin removed herself from him mid-dance and left in measured steps, leaving Maeglin gaping after her mutedly. It lasted but a moment. When he regained himself he followed, determined to get to the truth behind her manner.

He had made only a little progress, trying to see the direction Idril was heading before her figure was absconded in the crowd. She was not by any means fleeing, yet it still made him wonder. Then after a few more steps on a narrow path away from the others, a sudden obstacle blocked his path. The hindrance proved to be Mercion.

"I have been meaning to speak to you," the other began. "It concerns the following undertaking to the Echoriath."

"Let us do so at the forge," Maeglin said hastily, aiming to go around the other elf as his eyes followed any sign of Idril.

But Mercion persisted, moving in his way. "Are you in a hurry, prince Maeglin?" he asked rudely, and his eyes cut in a way Maeglin did not like.

"Mercion, remove yourself from my path," the raven-haired elf nearly snarled, his jealousy and resent flaring at this persistence. And his expression must have conveyed his anger well for Mercion simply bared his teeth in a smile, before allowing him passage with an elaborate flourished gesture.

Maeglin had no time to consider what this behavior was owed to, or what it meant. He rushed in search of Idril.

"I have seen the way you look at her," he heard as he was walking away.

Stilled but for a moment, Maeglin stopped his stride. His mien was stony as he turned to face Mercion. If his eyes were stormy before, now they warned of a furious tempest. "What is your meaning?" He ought to leave, he should.

"Your cousin is quite pleasing to look upon, is she not?" Mercion asked strangely. "Tell me, prince of Gondolin, have you watched her long?"

His life beat froze in his throat. He felt as though a strangeness was trickling into his limbs and sinews, making them go rigid. "Have you lost your mind with this ridiculous slander?"

"A strange question coming from you, son of Eöl," Mercion scoffed in response, his hair astray in the harsh wind wailing about them in the night. "At first, I thought it was the making of my own mind. But then I saw how you gazed upon her with the hunger of a wretched and starving wolf. You, her own blood," he hissed, and Maeglin saw disgust written clear on his face. "You betray her confidence, her trust. I see it all too well, and it will not be long before others do, also."

His mind went dark. In a sudden movement, the raven-haired elf reached for the other, grasping his garb.

Mercion pushed him away roughly as the two stood tensed before each other. "Do not touch me. And I warn you to leave her be, else you have myself and the full wrath of the King's House to contend with," the words were spewed as cold whips.

Maeglin buried the urge to make an end of this elf, with considerable difficulty. This was not the time for a struggle, considering the reasons behind it. "I have no use nor patience for threats, least of all yours," Maeglin said flatly, now shaking with rage. He sharply turned on his heel and departed, leaving Mercion behind.

He would not follow after her, Maeglin decided. Though he loathed to admit it, the perceptive words of Mercion had shaken him in their vicious fervor. But they had also echoed the voice of reason within himself. It was high time to end this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
There is no such festivity as 'The Gates Of Autumn' in Tolkien canon. I have devised this, as with plenty other canon divergences in this fic, for my own wicked ends.


	7. Truth

Maeglin stared into the smoldering metal workpiece burning bright red before his eyes. With yet another full day spent at the smithy, he was attempting to work the metal his own father had once devised. Memories from a distant past flooded his mind as the elf recalled the endless hours where he would sit, and watch his father weaving his skill. Eöl, tall and lithe, his moonshadow skin slick from the heat and effort, glistening from the embers of the fire. He struck with grace and fluidity, weaving metal as if it were thread. Owed to his knowledge in metalwork, most of which the Dark Elf had passed on to his son, Eöl had crafted a strong material to be used for various items and weapons as well as armor. Images of times spent in the company of dwarves swayed before his eyes as Maeglin worked. Rich, heavy music. Both father and son would meet with the Naugrim passing nigh Nan Elmoth and converse with them, and at times even go dwell as their guests in the deep, lit mansions of Nogrod or Belegost. This metal that Maeglin tried to reproduce was as hard as steel, but malleable enough as to be made thin and supple. Its resistance made it an invaluable product, were he successful. '_I would call this galvorn. For you see it is black as night and yet, of such shine as to rival the sun your Noldor kin hold so dear.'_

Lately, his days were full, and little was left to ponder over other things, his state of heart included. The son of Eöl had garnered quite a few acquaintances and collaborators with the passing of time. Many craftsmen of the city were willing and agreed to aid in hewing and delving into the newly discovered mine, and a new expedition was in progress. Preparations were underway to set out and the prince of Gondolin would spend much of his time in Anghabar in the coming years, when not aiding Turgon in council or seeing to other tasks. And then Maeglin strove to bar his mind from wandering elsewhere.

The realization that his hopeless yearning for his kin had been gleaned by another was akin to being tossed into the coldest of ice waters. For his own sake as well as hers, Maeglin decided to steel his wanton needs and steer clear of her. No matter that this decision was a battle in itself with each and every passing day.

And his resolution was such that for days, weeks, he had neither heard nor sought her, and though her absence grated and had him lie awake, restless on many sleepless nights, he kept telling himself it was all meant for the best. Once, a household messenger had come, sharing that the king's daughter had inquired whether he was free. Maeglin sent the young elf back with word that he was caught in other matters, and would be for the following week.

And now the prince worked through his remaining days in the city before heading into the mountains, trying to avoid the palace gardens or squares or indeed the company of others unless he had dealings with them.

As he worked drenched in thought, a soft voice stayed his hammer for a breath, and his heart leaped in his breast. Lifting his gaze Maeglin saw none other than _her,_ come to the smithy with her basket of goods as the princess had done countless times before. Her hair fell like a golden sheet over her shoulders, and a simple flowing dress of green and blue draped her slight frame. She spoke to Mercion and then shared with him her offerings with a small smile.

Gritting his teeth, both wanting and dreading to see or speak to her, Maeglin turned his back on the scene. Perhaps she would leave him be. He continued hammering the workpiece in an attempt to keep his mind and ears from hearing their soft-spoken words, from catching her laughter. But it seemed fate had not cleaved to him this day.

"Maeglin?" he heard his name, the tone gentle and wary, and though the elf tried to keep his bearings, indeed one ill smite of the hammer nearly ruined the even shape he had toiled over all morning. He ignored the summoning, continuing to beat at the workpiece.

"Maeglin!" her voice came again, slightly louder though he had heard it very well the first time. And now the elf closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wishing nothing but for her to leave him to his misery. Still, slowly he turned to face his cousin, and looked into her face. He recalled her unusual behavior from the previous celebrations and though his curiosity over its cause still burned, Maeglin dared not ponder further over it all.

Idril seemed well at ease, her face open and honest. "Would you like of the ice wine I have brought?" she asked, her voice level and laced with friendliness.

His eyes went to the bottle she held by its long elegant neck. "No, Idril, but gratitude," Maeglin managed before turning his back on her again, intent on resuming his work. He was doing what was right. He had to. But her hand on his arm, hedging him to turn and face her again he did not expect. As if beckoned by a higher will he turned to look at the maiden anew.

Her gaze now had a strange quality, and Maeglin found he barely could keep his feet from shuffling. But somehow he did. "Do you require something?" he asked as impassively as he could.

Idril only stared at him for another moment, seeing the dimmed light in his eyes, her own raking over his stiff bearing. "Will you join me later after my father's daily council meeting? I know you have been busy,-"

"And I still am," he interrupted. As his gaze flew across the smithy Maeglin saw Mercion watching them, his lips curved imperceptibly. No, watching him. He looked back into her blue gaze. "And will be, as there is much to be seen to before I leave. I have not the time, Idril," he managed to say, even as her own eyes narrowed.

"I see."

Silence stretched, but Maeglin found he could not move.

"What about the morrow of your departure to the mines?" the words came, rather pleading he thought.

Maeglin looked to the side, his eyes roaming around the smithy, focusing anywhere but on her. "I highly doubt it," his words came, rather strangled and somewhat broken.

"Truly?" Idril asked, in a tone which made his gaze flicker back to hers. There was confusion and more there, and Maeglin wavered. But before he could say anything else she spoke again. "Very well, then, as you wish," Idril said lowering her eyes, and with an incline of her head, the maiden spun on her heel, and left him.

When she was away Maeglin released a shaking breath. Looking to his metalwork the elf heaved another deep sigh, and with tired eyes resumed his task. _For the best. It is for the best._

* * *

He drowned himself in his work. The sister-son of Turgon was ever in the mountains, and for long weeks he would dwell within the encampment at the base of the mines of Anghabar, as it had come to be named in the tongue of their people. And upon return to Gondolin, he would spend most of his time in council with Turgon before going to oversee the workings of the main smithy. And Gondolin thrived with the passing of time, and though deep within he missed _her_ more than he could say, Maeglin never again sought Idril. He would see to his own and carefully avoid the places he knew she dwelt or lingered, and even at the king's council his eyes never strayed her way unless there was an official purpose. At times it was more than he could carry but somehow he did, and as night fell his soul would turn heavy with memory.

His cousin had tried at first to hedge and seek for him but eventually ceased upon his continued refusal. At least, he thought, there was some peace to be had in that.

One day upon his return from the mines a guard appeared, summoning him to the king.

"What is the matter?" he asked the guard as they were crossing the palace corridors.

"Word had been sent from Himring and Hithlum, and the king had called a meeting of utmost urgency," the guard shared.

Brimming with both unease and strange excitement, with swift steps Maeglin arrived before Turgon. The king was seated on his throne with a thoughtful mien, surrounded by his main advisors. A tall and travel-worn messenger stood before him, reading from a scroll.

Maeglin looked to see Idril sitting to the left of the king, her young face a mask void of emotion. He looked back to Turgon, who acknowledged him with a nod before his sister-son went to take his place by the right side of the king.

"War? He calls upon me to urge me to death and strife? Ever restless and perilous seem to be the endeavors of my half-cousins," Turgon was saying, his brow furrowed and his face grave.

"Lord Maedhros calls indeed for Gondolin, should you allow your numbers to join this effort. For it was seen that the Dark Lord is not invincible, and we may yet conquer his rule, and attempt to rid the world of his corruption. But this cannot be done in seclusion. As such, lord Maedhros is gathering forces and hopes for a union, and common council of one and all kindreds. He sees this as a chance to attempt and crush the monster in his own lair."

"Much it is, that my cousin asks for," spoke Turgon. "And not to belittle his efforts, but the shadow of the disaster wrought by his kin echo still the deeds of Morgoth, and owing to this, I am somewhat in doubt as to the aid he would receive. Who else has sworn to answer this summons? What of the others?" His keen gaze was searching.

The messenger stood silent for a while. "No aid will come from Doriath, for King Thingol looks ill upon the sons of Fëanor. King Orodreth will not raise his banners to this cause either, and from thence only a small company may join the union, if any," the elf followed. "They are to march under the banners of king Fingon, your majesty's brother."

That was to be expected, thought Maeglin. Orodreth, the ruler of Nargothrond, would never march on the word of any kin of Fëanor, not after the deeds of his sons Celegorm and Curufin.

"A host of Men will also fight, from both Hithlum and the East and without, as well as dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost who will contribute with their smithies. For theirs is a sturdy fighting force and their weapons masterful," the report continued.

And Turgon rose to stand then, and was silent as he walked back and forth before the throne where both Idril and Maeglin watched him with concerned faces.

"I cannot help but feel a doom is laid upon my kin and ever do my thoughts return to the messenger of the West, detailing how our fates would be hard and our end inevitable. I find that I cannot yet say yea or nay to this. Though born of determination and the fire which burns so strong within my kin, this seems a hard and treacherous attempt, as is ever the case with war." He looked to Maeglin and Idril. "What say you of this?"

Before Idril could open her mouth Maeglin was speaking, and his words were strong and willful. "If ever there were a chance to defeat Morgoth and his thralls, this might be it. Whatever you decide, king, I will stand by your side."

Idril looked sharply towards Maeglin, her eyes wide and distraught.

Turgon beheld the stained glass windows, engulfing the tiled floors in myriads of colors with their sifted light. "I know that you are valiant, and I trust your steadfastness. But were I to decide and bring our people into the fray, there would need to be someone to rule in my stead. And I would rather have that someone be you. I can think of no other."

At this, the dark-haired elf frowned, and his eyes glinted. "Forgive me, uncle, but as grateful as I am for all that you have done, please understand, it is not an option to shirk from the duty that others would be held to. If Gondolin goes to war, my place is to your right."

Turgon brought a hand to his face, and his shoulders rose and fell in a tired breath. "I need more time." He turned to the carrier. "Tell my cousin I acknowledge his call, and duly do I consider it. But I cannot give an answer as of yet, as the safety and secrecy of my city hold first. Tell him this, and that I shall send a timely response sooner than later."

Once the emissary was gone Turgon stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. "I shall see you both on the morrow," he spoke.

Maeglin knew a dismissal when he heard one. Inclining his head, he rose and swiftly strode out of the hall.

He thought about this. Valor and duty were held most dear, and a chance to be a part of great deeds made his hope rise and a part of him was glad and hopeful, despite being unknowing in the art of war.

"Maeglin! Await me!" he then heard the voice he knew so well. No, he could not speak to her now. He lengthened his stride.

Idril lifted the skirts of her dress and gained in speed until she reached his side. When she fell in step with him and looked at his profile, the maiden saw his manner was strange. It was as if Maeglin trained his sight before him in an obvious effort to not look her way. "Cousin," she repeated, when he still did not acknowledge her.

They passed by the open door to the library when he sharply turned to face her. "Will you not leave me be?"

It was only after he hissed the words that the elf noticed how harshly they were spoken. But his stare remained dark and shuttered as he took a few steps towards her.

Idril was startled by the suddenness of his outburst and retreated from him in turn, until unawares they found themselves within the library.

Taken aback only momentarily, Idril crossed her arms and pressed onward. "Truly you wish to go to fight? Despite my father offering to make you regent? Despite having absolutely no inkling as to what battle in an open field means?" she asked, and the maiden was stunned at the sting of her own words. But it was so reckless, nay, foolish to throw oneself so willingly into hopeless battle. She wanted it for him no more than she did for her own father. But Turgon was king, and his life was duty. He would do what he must.

"Yes, Idril, I would go," her cousin stressed through gritted teeth. What was her point with all of this?

"You are being rash," Idril uttered, disquieted when she saw him tense and darken further at her words. A tremor of unease went through the maiden when her kin took another few steps towards her. She could feel restrained waves of anger engulfing him like a shield. But this was not like him at all. An urge to retreat from him again crept into her, but Idril held her stance.

When her cousin spoke, his voice came colder than the ice coating the Tumladen in winter. His eyes bore holes into her own. "Rash," he spat. "Idril, he is my king. I will not let him head into battle while I... sit here-"

"Like I am doing? As others would?" she threw.

"That was not my meaning," Maeglin rebutted, and his eyes became somewhat sad. It was plain to see that she cared. It was endearing, but in a way that riled him. He had to be rid of her. "I have a promise made to your father, my uncle. And one duty which our kindred hold, against the evil ruling over the lands beyond this city. It must be overcome, and if this is the way and the time, then so be it."

"But the king has entreated you to stay and rule in his stead!" the maiden exclaimed, her words laced with exasperation. "Is that not duty as well?"

Idril saw him take a deep breath before his dark piercing eyes were set on her. They burrowed into her very being. They raked against the wall of her housed soul, so intense were the flames within.

"This, is not a topic I will discuss further with you," Maeglin stressed, and his swift stride took him around the maiden, and back through the entrance to the corridor.

She jerked at the sound of the library door being swung shut. She felt lost, but also angry and afeared. Fear for her kin, and what they would be heading to face. Fear for_ him_, and a new and unsettling fear _of_ him. What had happened to Maeglin that had made him so wary and resentful of her? Idril resolved to find the truth of it, and she would achieve such before he was to go anywhere.

* * *

The day had waned by the time he was returning from the smithy. Maeglin had spent nigh two weeks in Anghabar before the king sent back for him. The elf pondered as he approached the King's house in haste, whether this urgency was in regard to the decision on the union. But then it must be. His steps were light and bore a lively sprint as the elf greeted the guards before he entered through the gates. The bright tower stood majestic in its looming beauty, bathed in the light of dusk as it was. An image he had seen so many times before now, and yet still took his breath away. _Much like many things in Gondolin_, he thought wryly.

When Maeglin reached the king's private study the sentries opened the doors for him, and there was Turgon standing by the window in much the same position the prince had last seen him. Hands clasped behind his back, his tunic of dark blue draped over with robes of white down to his heels. His coronet of garnets lay abandoned on the elegant marble table without.

"Your majesty," Maeglin entered.

Turgon turned and looked to the younger elf. "Maeglin. Join me," he motioned to a chair as the king went and took his own seat. "I suppose you know why I have summoned you."

"I have an assumption indeed," his sister-son said.

"Regarding this assault against Angband. My cousin shall wait no longer, and I have yet to send a reply. It would reach him too late as the host will already have started towards Dorthonion."

Maeglin locked eyes with the bright ones of the king. "You mean to follow them."

Turgon nodded imperceptibly. "The need will be dire. I will need a speedy effort to increase the numbers of arms and armor. I would ask you to oversee this, and preparations are to begin as of now."

Maeglin agreed, already thinking of the many uses he could put the galvorn to.

"I will deal with the mustering of men."

That caused the young elf to furrow his brow. "Speaking of such-"

"You do not wish to stay behind, I know this. I remember. Maeglin, I wish you would reconsider. Of my kin, you are the last surviving part of my own sister. I would have no harm come to you, and neither would Idril."

The elf nearly flinched at the sound of her name. Barring the thoughts it brought, he pursued. "Uncle. I wish, no, I must be a part of this. I have never seen nor been on the battlefield, true, but if all must contribute to this cause and I know the need is dire, I will not have my place forfeit."

"You already contribute much through your mine and smithies."

"Idril...," he spoke swiftly, "my cousin may rule just as well in your stead, can she not?"

Turgon shook his head. "You know that is not the heart of the matter. I could command you to stay. But I find I cannot compel you. If this is your wish, so be it."

"Gratitude, lord," the younger elf spoke, and there was clear relief brimming on his face.

Once they finished covering details of what needed to be done Maeglin headed to prepare for the work at hand. All would need to be summoned and work longer hours to achieve the supplement required for a contingency of ten thousand strong. And so Gondolin prepared and set to great haste, for war. In his tower, Turgon sat many a time, pondering his decision, and whether the secrecy he had long sought to protect would come unscathed out of it all.

* * *

Idril was restless. The day came for the host of Gondolindrim to begin their march towards a battle none would ever forget. She felt it within, a growing shadow, and there was a lingering feeling in her chest that this would end ill. She still had done her part, of course. Helping oversee the making of the many personal items needed by the soldiers, then handling the food rations and horses were only a few of the responsibilities she had led to completion. And now, she had one last task to see to.

With quick steps she followed through the white hallways, hoping to find her cousin. When her search in the armory and palace surroundings proved fruitless, as all were busy and shifting to and fro, she decided for his chambers. When the maiden reached his door she noticed it was left ajar. Squaring her shoulders, she called his name and entered.

Maeglin was seated on a divan, his black hair a river of sable pouring over one shoulder, cleaning his blade now placed horizontally over his lap. It reminded Idril of their first encounter after his arrival in the city. He had looked so different, back then. More lost, less determined.

When the raven-haired elf heard her voice then felt her unexpected presence, he looked upward and stilled his movements. His face took an expectant hue. "Idril?..." he spoke warily, but then his eyes turned to steel. "What brings you here?"

The maiden felt somewhat irked by his surprise. Surely he would have said his goodbyes? "I wanted to see you before you went through the gate," she spoke in a level voice. Idril looked her cousin over as he rose and reached for his scabbard.

Maeglin spoke without looking at her as he placed Anguirel in its scabbard and cinched it to his belt. "Ah. And now you have," he said absently, though inside he was roiling and thrashing. "There is much yet to do before departure," Maeglin managed and shook his head as he went to a chest in the corner of the chamber to retrieve a few personal items. "Idril, I have no moment to spare."

She could not move, drawing on the unusual sensation that her feet felt leaden. And so she merely watched him. He wore a black breastplate over a long black tunic threaded with grey which reached to his knees. She saw black vambraces of the same material. A black helm rested on the table. His hair was set in great plaits braided with silver on either side of his head. In passing came the thought that he would make quite a sight, among the bright armored kin of Gondolindrim and their mithril sheen.

Her anguish and pique only lengthened at this dismissal and his silence. Why did he insist on this divide? Unable to rein what had been rendering her days gloomy and nights sleepless, Idril tightened her hands into fists and spoke. "Maeglin. Will you tell me why it cannot be as before between us? You barely utter a word to me anymore, you make yourself scarce when I am present no matter the circumstance," the maiden said bitingly, wanting him to know the full extent of her distress. "Did you think I had not noticed?" she added bitterly. And now the one who had come to mean so much to her would leave for war of all things, and fate knew if she would ever see him alive again.

Maeglin heard, felt the bitterness lacing her words, as if it were his own. He had not wanted to see her before leaving. It made it all the harder to face. She could not see it, but he was merely protecting the remnants of his honor and sanity, and so he steeled his heart.

When he stood silent, turning to look at her with an unreadable expression, Idril tried asking something else. "Are you not afraid?"

Her cousin turned from her and stepped to the window. "Of course I am afraid," he nearly whispered and closed his eyes. "But that matters not. It was my decision."

Drawn by she knew not what, Idril closed the distance between them until she stood just behind her cousin. Why was he behaving this way? She would have him tell her even if they stood here all night. Reaching for him she placed a hand to his back, saw him flinch, and draw away. It stung, in a way she never thought likely.

"What have I done to upset you so?" Idril asked so softly it nearly cracked his resistance.

"Idril, please," he sighed heavily, both hands now propped against the light window frame, his head dipped downward. He had to escape this somehow. "You have done no wrong."

"Then _why_ do you inflict this punishment on me?" came the defiant query.

_Will she not relent? _Maeglin shook his head wearily. "It is no punishment-"

"-I miss you," Idril tried finally. And she did, terribly. They had come to be so close, and his distance and the animosity he had allowed trickling between them had affected the maiden more than she could say. It was strange to think that once she had been the one shunning him.

Her words sliced through his composure, now perilously close to breaking either way. Maeglin shielded his eyes with his hand. How he longed for a time when all was simple and unmarred between them. Now, he was heading into combat, unsure of the outcome, and might well and truly never see her again. _But if I end there, I would finally be free of this._ In a way, he wished it.

"Will you at least face me when we speak?" Idril insisted, her voice close to pleading.

This was killing him. He took a deep breath to still his wayward senses, barring his frantic fëa from calling to her. "Leave!" he hissed so harshly Idril startled. As he threw the word the elf heard a sharp sigh and a short, pained sob.

No, he would be the one to leave. Maeglin turned swiftly from the window, but Idril deftly caught hold of his arm just as he was storming by her-

And that was all it took. Her touch and insistence, her simply _being_ there, broke whatever was left of his restraint. That same familiar darkness engulfed his mind completely, and Maeglin whirled around and reached for her.

For one short moment, Idril saw his eyes as never before. Burning and terrifying, revealing that which she had never seen on him before. This was not the face she knew.

Then a vice grip pressed her to him, strong fingers were gripping her chin, and before her wits returned the maiden felt lips burning hers.

The first and last time he would do so. He was met with the slick warmth of her mouth, and it was better than all his guilty dreams; where he touched her and she was his, and she always asked for more. He swiftly ran his tongue over her lower lip, tasting feverishly.

It lasted but for a blissful span of time before her body went taut and rigid in his hold. Eyes wide and with a horrified expression on her face, Idril drew back severing the kiss, and forcefully struck him across the face.

The moment had ended but still embraced they stood; he with his face averted, panting and with the sting of her palm flaming on his cheek, and Idril regarding him with the most terrified look of betrayal in her bright eyes. It spoke of fear, treason, and confusion. She then remembered herself enough to draw away from his arms and all but fled sparing no glance back, her hand to her mouth.

Stunned, Maeglin turned around slowly, and stepping to the window again he rested his forehead against the cold glass. What had he thought would happen? Nothing. He thought nothing. But now she knew, and if nothing else, probably would understand what he had done before, and why.

Repeatedly the elf halfheartedly beat his fist against the wall and for the first time since the loss of his parents, he felt the sting of warm tears. He may have been mourning the friendship his actions had broken, the connection severed. The mark her hand left still burned, imprinted onto his pale skin. Maeglin sharply turned from the window and retrieved his helm, and with that, his steps took him to the King's Square where Turgon and his host awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> And so we digress most heavily from canon. I skipped the coming of Huor and Húrin to Gondolin - let's say it happened but wasn't tackled here. And, the Union of Maedhros was not to happen but for years to come. I played the 'fan fiction wildcard' for this one.


	8. Unnumbered

All was dimmed, a never-ending whirlwind of metal, flesh, and blood. His ears could not keep to the sharp and hissing sounds of battle assailing his mind. Clattering, bending, burning. A storm of iron, stifled cries of agony. He floundered aimlessly when a horse and its rider were speared before him, splattering warm blood over his eyes.

The elf had lost his helm sometime earlier, barely avoiding his head being cloven in two by a wolf rider. And he had thought galvorn impenetrable. He blocked a large orc with his following breath, thrusting Anguirel deep between the weak points of its armor at the neck. Seeing the creatures of Morgoth for the first time had been a galling moment. The strength of their numbers helped matters little. Maeglin had nearly faltered before the first fiend, but then, as a friendly tide on a treacherous sea, the thought of Idril filled his mind. And be it for good or ill, it brought forth enough of him to make the first kill.

A dying horse whinnying frantically was being trampled by three others, and he fell from their path.

_Idril._

Her luminous smile, falling. Her widened, fearful eyes.

Maeglin pivoted swiftly and kicked an enemy in the middle before ducking to avoid a new blade.

Her lips, on his. Softness. He blinked the murk and dirt away from his eyes.

The silent fluttering of her dress when she fled from him.

_Father_.

He was falling from the greatest of heights.

Something crashed heavily into him. He was struggling for breath, yet still persisted and finally repelled his opponent, but then came another. And another. Maeglin felled two, but the third had kicked his legs from under him, and with Anguirel out of reach now the elf struggled on his knees against the grip of what he saw to be a great goblin. He was thrust into the mire with a savagery that left him dazed and confused, and he barely rose to one knee when the blade was upon him.

Death._ May_ _it be this day?_

For one moment in the endless meandering of time, it all made sense. He ought to fall. It meant freedom and seeing his parents again, perhaps, someday. _Peace. _Still, the blinding light he saw was not that of the call to Mandos, but of steel against steel.

Looking upward, he saw Mercion barring the attacking blade, his fair features stern beneath his helm even as Maeglin got to his feet. Not having time to dwell on it, by a stroke of luck he caught sight of Anguirel and fled to reach for his blade. He nodded to the other elf briefly before Maeglin lost him in the contorting mass of warriors and horses, wargs, and other creatures of the Enemy. Whirling towards Turgon and having regained his senses, the prince flung himself into the fray anew.

Too many seemed to fall around him. All were trampled together, as tribute to an endless thirst. Elves, orcs, Men, dwarves. He fought on, desperately searching for the bright mail and silver helm of Turgon amid the mayhem.

All reeked of blood, fire, and burnt flesh, and his feet had many a time tread over fallen friend and foe alike.

There was nothing to prepare the host of Gondolin for the swift and merciless tide of war sweeping over them when they arrived to join their kin in battle. Though valiant and disciplined, many if not all were filled with dread when they reached the host of Fingon, and saw the balance tilted to the designs of Morgoth. For treachery and cruelty in an ill wont of fate led ones of the host of Fingon to break ranks, and fall deep into the center of the enemy host. And with little else to do and seeing his troops ill-restrained, the High King of the Noldor charged his full force into battle, leading to disastrous outcomes. The enemy had fooled and deluded them. In the end, the Gondolindrim had gotten through to their allies as they attempted a retreat from the gates of Angband. Four days the bloodshed raged, the forces of the Union having been separated and diminished through interlaced threads of foul play, cunningly wrought by their foe.

_Four days_, Maeglin thought grimly, parrying then slashing at an orcish chest. Four days of waiting and grueling observation. And now on the fifth day as the host of Gondolin attempted to aid the orderly retreat of Fingon, all was madness and chaos. Fire roared in the distance where a great dragon could be seen descending upon the hosts in the east. The heated ash rose up to them, and burned through their lowered banners. Maeglin turned away, the image forever carved into his eyes. His arms ached, his head throbbed with the erratic hammering inside. He fought his way towards Turgon and reaching the king set his blade against any who dared approach.

"The High King has fallen!" the hoarse cry was discerned across the field of battle, wherefrom he could not tell.

Maeglin felt the tide turn clearly against their favor. _Where are the Lords of the West now? What has pride led us to?_

Leaders of Men were speaking to the king, urging him towards a retreat. They hastily spoke to him of hope for both kindreds, and of rising stars. They would take the rearguard. Maeglin cleared the blood from his mouth, having been struck in the face by a particularly eager orc rider in the assault before he carved through the creature's shoulder.

"What are we to do, king?" he cried towards Turgon when he reached his uncle.

"We attempt to retreat. Gather formation!" the king gave his command as Maeglin and the generals about him set to relay the order.

_The war is lost,_ thought the prince grimly. He was afraid, not only for the king but for his kin. For all kindreds walking the world though he knew little of it; all were taking part in this defeat. And he was afraid, for the glittering city of untold fairness, where a golden maiden stood alone.

_I love her._

_She is my kin._

_And I love her all the more._

He wondered what was worse: to fall hewed on a nameless, barren field knowing she despised him or having to meet her eyes now Idril knew the truth?

And so loath was the elf for either outcome, that he let fate decide, and the thought fled with the new rush of ire and fear pounding inside of him.

And ever they fell back, lining their retreat with many losses. The fifth day marked the end of it all.

He watched his uncle the king, with his head in his hands, his armor covered in grime and blood. Standing alone in a brief moment of reprieve, facing his horse, turned from the eyes of many. Mourning for his brother. Fingon had fallen in battle against the lord of Balrogs, and in a humiliating ending, his body was destroyed. Their losses were higher than any had foretold, and all those who remained felt it; the failure of unity against the Shadow, as heartfelt as their ill-conceived quest had been.

_And now look at us. _A king in tears, a hill of corpses, hope diminished. Many left behind.

Still, they kept on, eyes lost but faces determined, steadily placing great distance between themselves and their merciless foe.

Maeglin turned his thoughts to the White City, but it kindled no hope nor joy. Not after what had passed there. Not when his spirit was wearied with the curdling visions of war, and things he would never forget had tilted over an already crumbling inner balance. But be that as it may, beyond the mountains Gondolin the Fair awaited, and they had nowhere else to go.

* * *

She had never known who he truly was.

Had she? In the sparse idle moments before rest took hold in the evenings, though it rarely did, Idril replayed the startling short-lived happening over and over in her mind. Still, she could not believe he had kissed her in such a way. And not only his kiss, but the way he held her to him. As if he wanted to possess her, all of her, body and spirit. And what was all the more worrying, was that it had not felt decayed and vile. It had not brought on the pure revulsion and disdain which she thought it deserved.

It had felt good, and close, and filling.

It frightened her.

Frantically Idril had sought in her mind many of their past moments together. The lake, when he drew her to him, and the maiden had followed him to the depths. How _he_ followed her moving figure. As she mulled over her memories, a great deal more situations, along with his behavior, appeared in a different light.

Their dancing.

The lost look in his eyes when they met and stood in companionship in the gardens. His unusual manner at times, and even his recent estrangement. Idril belatedly recalled how she had gone to his chamber upon his arrival from the mines, and how tight his embrace had been then. How she never shied away from his touch.

How could he?

...How could _she_?

Her cousin was clearly attempting to avoid her presence now, and that meant he harbored at least some level of unease on his part for... _for whatever led him to allow his impulse to rule._ She bit her lip.

_Cousin. _The chiefest of lies, and yet the full truth.

And still, the daughter of Turgon worried no less than she pondered. Nothing bode well, and she had seen little rest in the past weeks. Idril prayed for him just as she prayed for her father, and for their people, for their goal to be fulfilled. Though she wondered if, in their wrath, the Valar would heed any of her pleas.

The night was tranquil in Gondolin, as if the shadow of war had woven a downcast mist over its usual brilliance.

Idril rose from her bed, her white nightgown spun about her, and went to gaze outside the window. Stars shone clear and sharp against the black canvas of the skies. Bright memories of the dawn of her kin.

A silky blackness covered the lands beyond Amon Gwareth. But another, impregnable foe she felt lurked about the realm, ominous and waiting. It was time.

Despite the forgiving weather, she shivered. It took the maiden a few moments to discern it was the sound of trumpets that was shrilling in the still night.

Her chest in a sudden tumult, her limbs seized by haste, Idril dressed swiftly and headed towards the throne room.

Other members of the House of the King and council had also made their way through the high white-pillared chamber, their faces grave.

Idril ran down the stairs and came before Turgon, who had just opened the doors himself and strode inside followed by his military leaders.

Her eyes widened and her chest swelled as Idril froze before the king. "Father," she whispered, in both joy and disbelief, before she flung her arms about his tired and worn figure.

And behind him, was Maeglin.

* * *

All left distraught and dejected after Turgon and his warriors imparted tidings and the outcome of the battle. And by their appearance alone those present could judge the deeds were true. Morgoth had won, though Gondolin still stood well hidden from his eyes.

But Idril ever feared the shadow unleashed upon the Ñoldor of their own making, and the Curse of Mandos still echoed in memory with this blight of a conflict.

Once they had set what needed to be done following this disastrous defeat in replenishment and to mark the dead and aid their families, Idril turned to the one who had ever avoided her eyes. She left her father, and hesitatingly approached her raven-haired cousin, who had just done a debrief of his own.

"Maeglin," she called softly. When she had seen him alive and well, an unnamed joy brimmed inside of her. And despite the strange and unsettling manner of their last meeting, she was relieved to see him home at last, well, and in the flesh.

He turned to her then, and Idril immediately saw how bone-weary he was.

His face expressionless, Maeglin merely nodded her way before turning on his heel and leaving the Hall.

She stood dumbfounded, but it only lasted a moment.

Then she was following him.

"Maeglin!" Idril called in the wake of his hasty retreat, her feet taking after him through the wide empty corridor.

But the elf kept to his quick pace, paying her no heed.

Emboldened by the now stinging hurt of his demeanor and the burning wish to speak to him despite it all, the maiden hastened until Idril saw her cousin reach his chamber and throw the door shut behind him.

Disheartened but driven, Idril looked about herself before pursuing, straight through the door and into his dwelling space.

Her mind and better sense howled at her, beckoning to retrace her steps. But then she faced surprised narrowing black depths and Idril knew it was too late. She closed the door behind her.

"You have no cause to be here," Maeglin said coldly as he proceeded to remove his dirty cloak, which he then threw onto a large bed. His sword scabbard he placed aside. His sword belt followed, the movements clipped and hasty.

Taking no heed of this cold bearing Idril tried either way, speaking the words she had so wanted him to hear. "It gladdens me to see you returned, whole and unharmed," she spoke in earnest, her hand to her chest.

He unclasped his breastplate, leaving him in his black tunic. He then sat on a nearby chair and removed his boots, not casting her a glance. _Unharmed. _He nearly laughed. "Your glee is duly noted," Maeglin all but muttered while he finished his task.

But Idril would not be deterred. "Cousin,-"

A peal of derisive laughter filled her ears as this time Maeglin did look at her, his features twisted by a cold, cutting smile.

The elf rose and unfastened his vambraces, throwing them carelessly onto a table, and then stepped towards her. As he did so, he undid his black tunic, opening the high collar at the front.

Slightly apprehensive though her eyes were caught by the movement, Idril stepped back and away. The glint in his cryptic eyes made her wary but she stood fast. She knew him, truly knew him, his heart. He would never harm her.

Still, Maeglin neared her, his words an echo of the darkest night. "_Cousin. _Will you stubbornly keep to this farce, knowing what you know?"

Idril swallowed and lowered her eyes. That kiss, the utterly confusing feelings she had for him. She knew not herself what to make of it all, even after so much time alone to think. It was simply too preposterous.

And yet.

His features hardened further. "I have seen things deeper and darker than you can imagine, where I have been," he said, and Idril nearly gasped at the haunted veil cast over his eyes. "But, if you think to hide the foul truth of this behind feigned pretense, and that it is of no consequence, then you are more of a fool than I thought."

Idril stilled in disbelief at the words, at how coarse he was being. "Maeglin, it happened but once, I hold you at no fault, nor do I wish to cast blame, on the contrary-"

Her words died on her lips as more scornful laughter resounded through the room.

His gaze was shrewd, searching. "Tell me, sweet cousin, do you think that was a mere moment's fancy?" He had sworn himself to silence with regards to it all, but her insistence together with his bone weariness left him bare, his self-control waning rapidly. "Can you even imagine what I have been through,-" he paused, the smile leaving his face, "all this time?"

Her eyes widened.

"Yes, Idril. You have no inkling of what is in my heart, my mind, do not presume that you do. Though, in a way I pray you never will," he added, now standing before her. A strong pale hand reached, gently caressing the side of her face.

The touch burned through her skin, but Idril dared not move.

"And that you can come to me in hopes of all being as it once was, by hedging me like a child ... well, that is a fantasy of your own making and one you must shed. Now leave me."

"How can you be so cruel?" Idril whispered.

He nearly laughed again at that. He was the cruel one. So be it. Looking back to Idril, he saw her eyes filling, her lip quivering, and at that moment he wavered.

All be damned, he wanted nothing more than to nestle her against him, to feel her again, to beg her to hear his truth. But instead, he swallowed the urge to soothe the pain he was causing and barred his heart. "Trust me, Idril, loss and death make good masters," he looked away from her. "Now go, lest you come to regret it."

Shaking at the unfairness of it all, Idril hesitated. But then his hand was on her arm, and he led her forcefully to the door though she did not struggle. He caught but a glimpse of her shattered features before throwing the door open and unceremoniously pushing the maiden outside. He shut the door in her face before pressing his back against the heavy oak, breathing deeply to regain his peace.

The elf regarded his surroundings, the echoes of battle still ringing in his ears. He looked to his filthy discarded armor.

He had been callous and cruel to the person who least deserved it, to the one he-...

Eru knew how many times he had dreamt of telling her his truth. How the memory of her face and voice alone kept him sane during this violent, rushed, and depleting war.

Despite it all, his resolve was still to steer clear of her now and forever. If only she knew, poor soul, how close he had been to taking her by the shoulders and throwing her onto his bed, to kiss her senseless for how much he had missed her.

Had she truly forgotten? Maeglin knew _he_ would never forget her frightened eyes upon feeling his lips on hers, nor the shameful sting of her palm. He cursed in his mind as he proceeded to undress, removing his tunic and shirt altogether.

Now lying limp and lifeless onto his bed, the elf heaved a sigh. Callous. He had acted unfairly towards her. For innumerable moments he wallowed in regret and a few long hours passed when, still remorseful and unable to rest, he went to the bath chamber to refresh his body.

Once there he took an ewer and filled it with previously heated water before pouring it over himself. It had gotten cold in the meantime. Eyes closing, he allowed the calming cleanliness to pour over him. But as water trickled down his skin his mind betrayed him yet again. An image of her swam into vision, dancing before him in one of their wanderings. Where they spoke of all and nothing, simply content to be in each other's presence. All was still well between them.

Maeglin cursed. He had erred. He could have, no, _should_ have been kinder in his refusal of her presence. She was worthy of such. His manner had been truly orcish and now regret stung more than even the fresh bruises on his body. He could not let this stand. And so, before he had a change of heart Maeglin hastily dressed, and soon the sound of his booted feet echoed through the palace corridors.


	9. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *M rating peeks out to greet everyone* This is where the AU nature of this spirals out of control. Warning, incest and all that.

Reaching the door to her chambers, he hesitated. Maeglin looked left and right, seeing the corridor deserted, as expected at this time of night. The sequence was clear. _Make your peace, then leave. _He knocked, twice. No sound could be heard from within and nothing stirred. Just as he was about to retrace his steps, feeling a wretched kind of relief, the door slowly opened, revealing a tired face. Idril was gaping at him, her features questioning.

"May we speak?" he tried, feeling all the more remorseful at the sight.

Idril said nothing and lowered her head, taking two steps back to bid him enter. Maeglin stepped inside, and there was a short metallic hiss as his cousin bolted the door behind them.

Once there, he wavered. He turned to her, both facing each other for a time in the ensuing quietude. Idril turned from him and went to sit on the edge of her bed, her arms folded in her lap, her eyes lowered.

Maeglin sighed. "So much death beyond these walls." He went to her window, catching a glimpse of the stars, briefly grateful for the silence between them.

"I worried for you," said Idril. Her voice was soft. "That is all."

"That is all," he repeated emptily, before sharply looking to the floor. "It seems all I do these days is seek atonement," the elf said as to himself, and there was a cold, miserable flicker in his eyes. He turned his head to her window, searching the skies. Those very same stars shone over what remained of their kin, somewhere on the field of Anfauglith. He tried not to dwell on it all now, as he surely would either way, for the rest of his days. "You were not mistaken, in your first notions of me," the words left his mouth, fallen like lead between them. There was a rash drum within, deafening to his ears. Maeglin forced himself to meet her eyes, and blinked. What he found was not repulsed discomfiture, nor disgust. He saw not the lost, aghast expression of one deceived, following what she now knew of him. If nothing else, Idril was looking at him in askance, seeking. He noticed the tension about her shoulders, and for a moment considered turning tail and fleeing to his chambers, even with all the things left unspoken between them. And then the battle raged in his ears again, and horses were fallen upon their riders, and there came the shadow of her dress as she fled him. He stayed. "In the beginning," Maeglin finally supplied to her questioning glance. "There_ is_ darkness within me. Devouring my sense, my reason, leading me to long for that which... which I can never have." His gaze on hers, he neared Idril in slow steps and knelt before her. She was so still. "You."

Idril started at the cowering shame in his eyes, unable to say or do anything as he lowered his head into her lap.

"I tried to keep you at a distance, hurt you as I did," he spoke, feeling the warmth of her against his forehead. "There is nothing to redeem this." He gazed upward again. "Nothing to undo it, and nothing against the frightful conclusion that whatever I try will not change the way I feel, not even a small, pitiful shred of it. "

Idril regarded him, the prince so humbly kneeling at her feet. He was so lost against her, appearing more defeated than she had ever seen him. But then they all were. His rich hair fell in a sable mess about him, and his arms wrapped around her legs.

"I never asked for this," he said, his eyes pressed shut. He never thought to feel her close again, not until they had at last seen the first gate.

His heartbeat burned against her and smothered her in guileless, open desire, bright and menacing. Hesitatingly, Idril placed her hands on him, running them soothingly through a curtain of night, and felt his hold tighten as her fingers continued their gentle intrusion.

"Believe me, Idril, I never wanted to... how could I? But then the more I saw of you, knew of you, the more it gripped me. And I tried to do away with it all. I tried looking to another."

Idril stiffened, surprising even herself. "Caniel," she rustled.

He nodded, once, slowly. "But I could not, and I hurt her. This, is strong, though I did try. You trusted me, and I betrayed you," he said faintly, his smooth voice chopped and shaken as he lowered his head into her lap again, half expecting her to draw away in renewed anger or disgust.

But Idril did neither. "I still trust you, that has not changed," she spoke then, finding it to be true, shearing through the mire of his self-pity and doubt. "And I am beyond relieved you are returned, alive and hale," she said, still smoothing his hair with her hand, feeling it flowing under her fingertips. "And would I not be cruel, and a liar, to turn from you, when I cannot even bring myself to rise, and put an end to..." _this_, was what she wanted to say, but her last words faded like twilight, and her eyes closed at the hopeless entreaty of his fingers digging into her hips. They stood so for many moments, she tortured by his nearness, he drowning in his longing.

Maeglin lifted his head after a time, regarding her with a troubled expression.

So weary and hopeless he appeared, and Idril saw the reflection of all that she felt, the unspoken certainty amid depths of guilt. It scared her. It called to her.

"I love you," his voice broke on the words, but what was half a confession worth? He had shared it all, had cracked the lock on his dark chest of dishonor and disgrace. A part of him dwelt on the precipice, and the moment he heard his own words Maeglin hoped she would again be the wiser. That Idril would despise this as she had done the first time, crush it all ere it devoured him.

But as he lost himself briefly in this thought, he felt her fine hands on his face, soothing upon his brow, ghosting along the sharpened lines of his bruised jaw.

Idril wondered where he had gotten the purple-black marks marring his pale cheek. What blunt weapon struck, what near miss had saved his life, seeing him close his eyes as she reached and gently began to unbraid one of his plaits. With deliberate care she removed the silver thread from his hair, her fingers weaving through black strands. Her eyes were on her hands, and her task.

The prince of Gondolin watched with bated breath, his heart rebelling against his ribcage, remembering this was a custom normally followed by the spouse of the one returned from battle.

Idril watched her fingers unthreading the silver, feeling shades of bold, crimson hope roiling within. How could she have been so unknowing, so utterly oblivious? All this time, he was attempting to shield them both from the unnatural pull he now admitted towards her.

Unnatural?

Was any living being ever able to truly make or bend the choice in whom they came to love? And was she not still here, unable to retreat from him, not even thinking of asking him to leave?

"You are so quiet," Maeglin uttered, lost to the touch of her hands. Though her uncertain silence at his admittance tore at him, these lingering ministrations, her, the look in her eyes curtailed his resolve to speak his truth and leave. Instead, the elf felt all he strove to keep at bay boiling to the surface - a great, perilous wave, crashing against the shores of his mind, his spirit. He knew the full depths of a strong and selfish urge, beckoning beyond reason. He rose to one knee, his eyes on hers. His hands were shaking as he placed them on either side of her on the edge of the bed, and Maeglin half-wished he were torn away and flung back on the plains of battle, days ago.

This desperate manner should have made her repel and flee him, she thought, but the daughter of Turgon could only watch, entranced, following the depths of his eyes as her cousin closed the distance between them. And his gaze kept her still, commanding in its intensity; shoulders unyielding against hers until Idril felt him so close his warm wisp of breath ghosted her lips.

She shut her eyes at the feel of his mouth seeking hers. It felt... better than she remembered, if the arresting flickers arising in her were any sign. He trapped her lower lip between his, and a soft moan struggled up his throat. Idril drew from him gently, and still watching his lost gaze slipped further onto the bed, lying down on her back, watching him follow. His arm slid beneath her and brought her to him, trapping her in a light, wavering embrace. Idril felt his slick hair, cold on her neck and face. His body sinking onto hers felt better than she ever thought it would.

"Ask me to leave. I will." Their breathing mingled in shallow gasps, and his hand caught in her long golden hair.

Idril watched him for a long while in silence, her face showing nothing.

"Idril," he hedged again, pressing the side of his face to hers. "Command me to leave." He would, of course, he would, she only needed to say it. _Say it, please say it._

"Stay," came the whisper, so low he thought it a fleeting figment of his mind.

His eyes snapped open in disbelief, and Maeglin met her eyes again. And what he saw... it was absurd, but he saw... need? He felt it from her, clear and deep. He pressed his lips to hers again. Her taste smoldered and he burst into flame; as a grace, he felt her lips timidly moving against his.

Despite reason urging the opposite, Idril clutched at his tunic and fully melded her mouth to his, felt his brief confusion, then his eager response as he opened to her. His hand trailed down her arching back, each still following the other languidly, patiently tasting in turn.

Idril found that she relished the way he trapped her. His touch was delicate yet pleasingly firm, and so frenzied that she was steadily being swept by the tide. Her nimble hands moved to unfasten the seams of his dark tunic, revealing his silken shirt.

Maeglin looked upon her, so flushed and fair and still he could not believe this was truly happening. Driven by need he pressed the length of his body to hers, wringing a faint sound he never heard before. Her slender legs wrapped around his hips. Their lips barely touching, they stood motionless, both confusion and relief dancing in their eyes.

He slid the dress off one small shoulder, his lips found blushing skin. He longed to hear more of those new and delightful mewls from her, and dared to nip at her, his mouth lingering and warm as it sought her neck.

Idril pressed his head into her, her breathing quick and shallow. Somewhere on the fringes of her mind, there was a warning that this had to cease, it was against the laws of their kindred and not at all what she knew, or had ever imagined of love. But he burned, so bright and lost in her arms, and it felt good. There was no foulness, no darkness. Only them. "Maeglin," she cooed either way, sighing as he tilted her chin to him, and the tip of his tongue parted her lips.

"Anything," he breathed, pressing down on her hips.

"We cannot wed," Idril managed, a sliver of reason battling its way into her. "Not like this," she cupped part of his face.

He stilled, and for the first time that night Maeglin smiled, shaking his head, and she felt the pressure of him lessen. He drew away and made to release her, rising on his elbows. He took a deep breath as he looked into her eyes. "No, not like this." For better or worse, again she had saved them both. On a sigh, Maeglin rolled flat onto his back by her side, taking steady breaths to regain himself.

He felt her curling against him, slight and warm. Her head came to rest on him, one bared leg gently placed over his thigh, wringing a gasp when her knee brushed him. She noticed how wound and ready he was, and wished more than anything they had not ceased. But this was a sudden storm, and neither knew how to weather it, not yet. "Stay for the night," the golden one asked, bringing herself as much into him as she could. Her hand drew lazy circles across his heaving chest.

"That is ill-advised," Maeglin said absently, his sense partly regained. But it felt as though he could not trust himself in her presence, and now, to both his distressed delight and black dread, it seemed neither of them could.

Her lashes fluttered shut, the small hand on his chest gripping his shirt. So this was it. She wanted him, came the unsettling understanding. Just as he did her, and Idril saw a glimpse of what he must have been through. "Oh Maeglin, I did not know," she murmured against him.

"I failed to keep this from you. The blame is mine. I did try fighting-"

"I know," she brought a finger to his lips.

"It consumes me," the elf finished after a moment of silence, voicing the truth he had always feared sharing with her. His arm was strong around her, bringing Idril even closer to his side. Lips parted, eyes shuttered, he committed the feel of her to memory.

"You will stay, will you not?" the maiden asked, her face buried into him. His scent was reminiscent of fresh, untamed forests.

Maeglin felt strangely at peace, as if a great mountain had crumbled off his chest, leaving him defeated but free. "Do I have the semblance of a choice?"

They lay so, wrapped in each other, unmoving for long hours, each enmeshed in their own strain of thought; it was long before rest took them. All too soon dawn peeked from behind the mountains, drowning the East and their tangled figures in its cold light.


	10. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: incest and depictions of mental breakdown

The fog around his conscious judgment seemed denser, covering his sight and stripping him of any sense of stability. He squinted and grimaced. There it was again. The dull, soundless noise, though high pitched to his ears, drowning his hearing. The choking scent of spilled blood and entrails, the desperate whinnying of dying horses; the dust and rot in the air.

"Maeglin..." a voice called, so far away.

He blinked several times, his mind suddenly on fire as he strove to hear, to see.

"Maeglin, what is your stance?"

The question reaching the fringes of his focus, he smothered his dread down to the pit of his stomach, straining his mind to process and his throat to speak. His eyes met grey, clouded ones.

Turgon raised a questioning eyebrow to accompany the look of concern he was bestowing upon his sister-son.

Maeglin swept his gaze over the council members then, over their tired faces worn by war, worry and grief. They all mirrored, somewhat, the same sentiment or at the very least similar in the effect it had on him. Dreadfully he understood, that it would not be easy to face the day. Ever since his return he had to gather and funnel his thought to comprehend the world around him, but try as Maeglin did, his mind drifted back to piles of his lifeless kin mounted carelessly atop one another, and a charred, consuming hatred. The cruelty of the foe they faced was a constant companion, working at the corners of his vision, ever-present, ever niggling, together with a wretched longing for silence. Thoughts fell like clipped wings at the bottom of a broken cage.

"I am of the same mind with lord Cendaro," someone spoke, and Maeglin barely discerned it was he who opened his mouth. "We must keep the smithies running and forging. There is source material aplenty from the recent incursions in the mountains." He had kept his voice steady enough, but the fatigue, shame, and grief of defeat was a suffocating veil, fallen over all those present. This, together with the weakness and lack of rest from the previous night, left him bare and raw, the hurt a slab of stone falling down the jagged slopes of his mind, crushing all in its path.

_The previous night._

He had kept all sensation and memory of it barred dutifully within. But now, assailed by the smell of fear and growing cries and stamping hooves, dismembered bodies, it all began to simmer and his heart saw fit to rebel, seeking escape. And the recollection was persistent, scraping across his chest with a strength he failed to contain. It grew in magnitude until it hurled him back to the closest, most wrenching, and all too few moments Maeglin had ever lived, had ever felt - possibly since the awakening of his awareness into the confines of his body. He had gone to her for no other reason than to show his remorse, but then the door to her chamber swallowed him, his mind, his very self, and in a deep trance the elf had followed. After knowing nothing but endless marching and death for days, weeks on end, it had been a tempest that stripped him bare of any pride, will, or masks, until all that was left was the craven, needing _her_.

But, at the same time there was nothing quite like the recognition that he was returned to a still hidden, yet standing city, heart beating in his breast; its folk well away from the horrors some of the others have endured. And Idril had been there in thought, a balm to his despair, soothing and present yet so far away. And so he had fallen irrevocably the previous night, to the sweetest, most unexpected reward. And it was only then, ever since his return, that the soundless noises in his head ceased. Being with her aided in hedging that which now felt broken and poorly knit within him, as an old lock, unhinged, rusted and fallen out of place. But even the peace of her closeness had lasted little, and as Idril fell into weary rest with her head propped on his shoulder, Maeglin carefully rose and left her chamber as dawn came.

He had not seen Idril since. He had not seen her _all_ day, and was astonished that a side of him preferred it this way._ Coward._

Maeglin looked out the window and saw the darkening of the light, stray golden red and purple ribbons drifting across the skies. It was dusk, and there was yet more work to do. His gaze skimmed over the rest of the council members and ordinance officers when the meeting was concluded, and though he felt the king's gaze on him, he chose to needed to retreat.

As Maeglin went through the corridors and passed outside into the lavish gardens, the worrying hiss he had been struggling to keep at bay all day enveloped him. Its tendrils wormed their way under his skin, and a primal fear surged through his entire being. An image of bloodied maws, unleashed, snapping at him. There was no escape from it, though the elf pushed his will forward with all the stubbornness he was capable of, to shield from it, to make it cease.

_Weak fool._ He had killed. This gruesome, life-altering event that mutilated their kindred and left them hopeless to the bone marked the first time he had killed.

_Nay, not the first time _the scathing voice within mocked.

His mother's touch as she lay in his arms, her gasps the loudest sound, the feeling of his chest crushing in on itself.

_Your doing._

The anger, the boundless hate. The dying scream of his father pierced his mind as a long-forgotten enemy, and then it multiplied and grew menacingly into a terrifying ensemble of screams and metal against metal, bone against blade, body falling upon lifeless body.

It was his doing, _all_ his doing-

His hands came to his head, fingers scraping against his scalp. The elf wavered in his steps, his hand shooting outward in vain to find no support. He willed his mind to still. _Enough, this is enough. Master it, you can master it_ he commanded, unknowingly grasping at his chest._ It is over, it is done. The war is ended, the city is safe._

_She is safe._

He clung to the thought of his kin, the feel of her fingers running through his hair, the silk of her skin, the bright warmth of her spirit. The trembling of her under his touch.

_She will be your doom,_ the hidden, obsidian voice said anew, throwing all and any peace to the wind. They knew, somewhat, where they stood now, after what had happened. For his part, Maeglin dreaded the outcome. What if it had been simply a momentary lapse of reason and will on her part? Then he considered the thought. Had it not been the same for him? It was he who told her those words, it was he who kissed her, who would not stop. And now his courage withered as a new thought forced its way into his frayed mind.

What if she regretted what happened? A cold, steady stream of grief filled him to the brim. What if Idril now stood somewhere in a hidden corner of the palace, recoiling from it all in shame? What if, with the return of reason and a new day, she had seen their actions for what they were: unnatural mutilations of the spirit, dark desires of the body, decaying on the mind.

_But that is not so. I wish her well, I wish..._

_You desire her, _the voice hissed, _for your own base gratification._

He snarled at the bare truth of the black whisper, biting back. _I desire her, but I also care for her, and I would rather die before harming her._

His steps took Maeglin through the Alley of Roses, white marble lined on either side with elegantly subdued green arrangements, imbued with freshness and light. He found it rather cruel and a mockery, how such an innocent place with its pleasant scent coexisted with the endless pile of rot composed of his kindred, lying as carrion somewhere in the North. Without thought and completely unlike himself, his hand reached and crudely ripped a white rose from the nearest bush, crushing it mercilessly between his fingers as his boots struck coldly against the cobbled street.

The forge stood grim and quiet ahead, as most smiths had left at the end of the work day. Life was not the same as before, how could it be with so much loss and sorrow engulfing their people? But still, they tried. All ran as before, as ordained by Turgon. But there was one horse in the stable, and it did not belong to Tanwetamo whom he had wanted to speak to. Warily Maeglin went inside the structure either way, closing the heavy main door behind him. As he went deeper into the smithy he heard the clang of metal being struck in regular, even intervals. Each hard stroke was granted with furious strength, and cadenced sorrow.

Maeglin approached, and despite the roiling feelings that the figure before him aroused, he kept the diverted, unaffected composure which now seemed worryingly easy to achieve.

"Mercion," he said by way of greeting, though the presence kept beating heavily away, sending sparks through the air.

The other elf lifted his head in what may have been acknowledgment.

Unsure whether he should take his leave or wait, Maeglin lingered. He watched the other elf, his deep frown. He took note of the lost look in those eyes.

The elf seemed to pay him no heed, nor even allow any of his usual discontent show.

Mercion had saved his life.

"I know you and I have never seen eye to eye," Maeglin found himself speaking, heading to a different corner where a set of tools were. Long it seemed since he had touched them. And then there it was, the fog again. He forced it all down, burying it, stifling it under the force of his will. "But I must thank you for your essential aid during the battle we fought." _Together_, he may have added, but his seemingly innate dislike of the other elf prevented such words from leaving his mouth.

"I did not do it for you," came the cold reply in a voice as hard as granite, accompanied by the hard, desperate pursuit of the hammer. Maeglin noticed the piece the other elf was beating was dangerously close to being ruined. Mercion said nothing else, nor even lifted his head to the other again.

Maeglin saw then, that all made do in their own way. His own state worsened with the dull sound resurfacing in his ears and suddenly the fires were unbearable, the heat of the forge suffocating, Mercion himself a drifting shadow. He had to, needed to leave this place.

And so with as much dignity as he could muster Maeglin turned on his heel slowly, and left the forge without a word. When he reached the outside world, the air pleasant and fresh, he scowled. He shook his head, and suddenly a wild, hopeless need came over him. Her eyes, her scent, his arms closed around her slight waist. He had to find Idril. No matter the aftermath, no matter the possibility of her shunning him - again - the elf would attempt to speak to her. To make sense of at least one part of his now grey, uncertain days.

But as he reached the upper levels he floundered, and his courage left him. And so his feet returned him heedlessly to the place the elf found solace in more than any other in Gondolin - the retreat with its cold, narrow stairway.

As he ascended, his eyes cast downward, he missed the presence seated to one side of the stairs.

"Maeglin," came a soft voice, one he had heard in his dreams and nightmares alike, one which crushed him down to the lowest depths, lifted him to the soaring heights of hope.

His head snapped upward at the sound of his name, and his eyes fell on the figure of Idril, seated atop the stairs with her arms circling her knees. A brief thought speared his mind and Maeglin remembered this was where they exchanged their first words, back when he and his cousin were wary and distrustful of each other.

Finding her was all he had wanted, but now a freezing fright coursed through him, and all his courage dwindled away into dust, and he hesitated. What was there left to fear, though? Maeglin bitterly thought he had reached the pinnacle of anguish and fear upon seeing those wretched beasts, upon fighting and fleeing from them, all the while attempting not to retch his whole being away or lose sight of his own.

She was regarding him with bright, worried eyes, and the elf could not guess whether Idril was glad for this meeting or not.

"I was about to search for you," he managed, cursing the hollowness of his voice.

Idril showed what may have been a smile and rose, coming to where he stood, unable to move. "And I hoped, this was where I would find you."

Silver light shrouded their figures from the giant moon looming above the White City. Glancing about the darkened streets, it all seemed no different than before. But he knew, that its towers were bent with the sorrow of those returned, those mourning and living through the same nightmare as he.

When she faced him, so slight, so near, Maeglin had no notion of what to do. His feet were leaden, his chest and mind about to cave in on themselves with the memory of her naked skin under his fingers. But, at least, thankfully the ringing in his ears had ceased, and he had little doubt as to the cause.

The sudden shiver he felt was the small hand touching his face, his cheekbone, smoothing a strand of black hair away.

"Idril, do you regret it?" he asked softly. The slight waver in his voice was the sole physical sign of the craven and wanton fears which he knew, were so clearly written in his eyes. "Do you..." _Do you hate that it happened, do you loathe me for it? Do you wish to keep your distance now?_ His tongue felt swollen and dead in his mouth, and words failed him.

When she kissed him it felt as if the elf had been lain on a soft bed of grass, akin to the gardens they once frequented together, surrounded by healing wisps and mild, aromatic plant life. The destructive pain which he kept strangled in the pit of his core roiled and thrashed but soon dispersed to his wonder, leaving an empty, barren nothingness. The gliding warmth of lips and the feel of slender, tender hands were an unsought for antidote, and Maeglin suddenly, desperately craved more of it. He pulled Idril to him without realizing, holding her so tight she gasped though she never ceased nipping at his lips, her arms winding around his neck in a caring embrace. She seemed a beautiful clinging vine, bringing life to a wearied, dying tree.

When Idril broke the kiss their chests were rising and falling against each other, their breathing shallow and hitched, soaring in light mists into the cold night air. Maeglin had cradled her body completely against his, and felt her heartbeat, a chanting, erratic rhythm against his own.

"I regret nothing," her blue eyes held a light in them as Idril said the words, dividing, dispersing, and crushing the darkness in him.

There was nothing like the wash of relief and strain of forgotten joy suffusing, overpouring at her words. Then his hands were in her golden hair and Maeglin tilted his head, though for a time he did nothing but stare at every detail of the face he loved. Her eyes, her fair, rose mouth, her slight oval face. Her determined brow. The daring, fearful notion that she could... that she might, become _his_, slammed against the walls of his mind with furious, debilitating strength. It hurt, it was despairing but it was elation, and he could make no sense of it all anymore. Nor did he care to. His lips found hers and before Idril could draw breath, he deepened the kiss.

* * *

The smithy burned its way through the day to the hammering music of the forge. Though the still open wounds of war were fresh in the minds and hearts of all, life took its course. Maeglin stopped and wiped his brow before leaning with his arms propped against the metal working table. Despite his role having turned more overseer of the trade in most of Gondolin, the prince still found he needed the smith work to keep him grounded. And so the elf went whenever time allowed to feel the heavy hammer in his hand, to sharply control the beautiful lines of hard unyielding metal, molding it into existence to the usefulness of all. Unyielding... as was her grip of him the night before. And with that thought all other voices and sounds around him dimmed, even that of the master smith Tanwetamo speaking and working so close to him.

_I regret nothing..._

And then she had kissed him, chasing all his shadows away. And they had spent much of the night together, on those same stairs, her lithe figure draped over him. And he held her as tightly as if Idril were a dream, and the elf had never understood how deeply and strongly tenderness could reach, not until then. He already missed her.

Both their duties required much of their days and so both knew it would be difficult to find more time for one another. And they had spoken of keeping it all between them, for now. It was all yet new and both elves were coming to terms with what this actually meant. What it could mean. If they were to marry, he would eventually be the heir of Turgon. An interesting prospect to be sure, and one Maeglin had admittedly thought about in his previous ambitions. But that was before... before the war, before their loss. Now, he barely managed to keep his mind free of the sickening, wrenching sounds of trampled bones and dying groans. Ever the dim sound would ring in his ears, and Maeglin craved the cure, _his_ cure, with even more fervor than before.

It was in the afternoon when he left the smithy, the blue skies and gentle wind a calming balm to his nerves. He took to the palace, and soon through the shimmering gate he went, where its brilliance, unlike before, awoke nothing inside of him. Now even the city itself awoke nothing within him, if he were to be honest. Its bright streets and lavish gardens, its majestic fountains and soaring towers, all of it, all of it an illusion. His mind and heart struggled between endless white marble walls and roaring, destructive battle, scorching fire, and blood.

They had agreed to search for each other and share the midday meal, and so now he roamed the corridor leading from the king's throne, searching for her. Recalling something, Maeglin took a left turn, and soon his feet brought him before the library. He entered and closed the door behind him before his eyes fell on another presence, who was just placing a book back in its place within one of the tall shelves.

"As fate would have it," Idril smiled gently as she approached him.

Maeglin smiled unsteadily, wishing the blasted ringing in his ears to cease, needing _her_ to make it cease. But since they were here, the elf yet wished to show her something.

He went ahead and took a large scroll from a nearby table, and caught her eye as he unfolded the heavy material, beckoning her closer. Idril approached, her face lit with interest. He felt her scent, that of elanor and aught which was solely her own.

"What is this?" she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity and wonder. It was a plan, the sketch of a highlighted structure by all accounts.

Elegant fingers trailed over the straight lines, and absorbed as she was Idril failed to notice him until his arms were already tightening around her slim waist. She sighed and smiled, feeling herself drawn into him until her back was pressing into his chest. His soft breath ghosted her ear. "After the disaster that was this war, there needs to be more precaution, added protection," he whispered the words as if they were a caress. Idril lost focus on the map, the sketch, and all else with his hand now pressing into her middle. She allowed herself to drift with him, pale hands reaching along her hips before returning to her waist and upward, slowly roaming over her.

As under a spell the elf turned her to face him and lifted her by the waist onto the table. Lips barely touching hers, he smiled. "A gate - the _seventh_ gate, it will be," Maeglin whispered, pleased with the flush blooming across her features. Maeglin reached and slid the skirt of her dress up until sure fingers reached the sides of her hips beneath the material, and sharply drew her lower body to him. He felt the silk of her thighs as his hands followed their path, his lips ghosting hers in what could only be described as slow agony. "It will be of steel," he whispered as Idril tilted her head back and he followed, feeling worryingly close to losing much of his control, such was the effect her golden scent had on him. "And, nigh indestructible," he managed as Idril began teasing his lips with hers. "Unbreakable..." he managed and unable to resist crushed her into him, her legs having long encircled him, her arms tightly locked around his neck as he leaned forward against her.

"I suppose, the king had already blessed this...," Idril spoke softly, though none were focused on words any longer.

"He did," Maeglin breathed, leading her down with her back flat against the table, her hair as rays fanned about her over the sketch.

Maeglin kept her trapped so and continued to kiss her, their surroundings melting away with the gliding slickness of her mouth, the shivering tautness of her beneath him. How he would take her here and now, marry her, make her his.

The clashing sounds of metal, and piercing screams as bodies fell flooded his vision with a violence he had never felt before.

_No, no, no, not now, not this_ he closed his eyes tightly, and ceased his ministrations, his breathing uneven. He held his kin tighter, wishing the darkness to recede, his kiss become slow and shallow. He tried to hide within her, tried to keep the shadow at bay, hoping her presence would aid, as it had before.

_Ill-gotten son... _the whisper fired anew through his mind, and his father falling took precedence as the chief image in his thoughts, and though he was looking at Idril, he was staring right through her.

"Maeglin, what is the matter?" she whispered worriedly, seeing him stare so blankly at her, his dark eyes shadowed anew by that dread and desperation she had only seen in them since his return.

He was holding his mother close as the poison seeped the life out of her. _How could you?_

_How could you, father?_

A deep, sordid and relentless hatred engulfed him, try though he did to cling to the present, to her warmth, her touch.

Hate. He hated Eöl so strongly it felt as if it would consume him._ You must not cast blame onto the dead._

_Your doing._

_If you had died, she would still be alive._

"Maeglin!" the sound of his name was dimmed and barely reached him, as many, many times before lately.

And then he could not breathe, he needed air, he needed _her _and Idril became his crutch, his salvation as the elf kissed her wildly, uncaring of how she was repeatedly calling his name. This had to stop, this had to cease. He willed the face of his father to disappear, the hatred to vanish, the pain to lessen.

"Maeglin, stop!" the words were shrilled and finally reached him, and his eyes refocused to find a frightened Idril staring back into them. Her lips were reddened and bruised, and he saw dark marks already forming where he was previously gently brushing his fingers along her neck.

They gaped at each other before Maeglin straightened as if singed by burning metal, and appalled he took a few steps back away from her. Had he hurt her? He would never hurt her. He would _never_...

In her eyes he saw worry, and fear, but also care, which only lengthened his distress and guilt, but somehow lessened the reckless thrashing of his heart. Idril very slowly righted herself from the table and stepped forward, even as her cousin took another step back. "What have I done...I did not mean- ," Maeglin croaked, unable to meet her eyes, retreating unsteadily as she came closer.

"Maeglin," and his name was both torment and bliss from her lips. "There is aught the matter with you," Idril gently reached for him when she was close enough. "Will you not tell me what it is?"

He looked to his hands, then back to her. Sinking slowly down he sought the support of the wall, leaning into it with his shoulder. It was all whirling again.

Idril was on her knees beside him. "Tell me," she hedged, one hand smoothing rebel strands of hair from his aghast face.

His breath came hitched, his vision blurred with the onset of stubborn tears. "I hate him, Idril," he rasped. "I loathe him so much... my mother... I _hate_ him," he repeated endlessly, and Idril could do nothing but place her arms around his shoulders, holding him to her as her kin murmured fragments of inner turmoil, pieces of pain. She listened, even as a dark foreboding filled her and would not be abated.

"How could he, Idril? I was his only son, she his wife..."

After a while he quietened, repeating the same words, over and over.

"How _could_ he?..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PTSD? Shell shock? Our character seems to have garnered them all, in exchange for losing a good chunk of mental stability. That's the Nirnaeth for ya.


	11. Omen

They stood upon the great stone walls, wrapped in the silence of the Gates of Summer. Maeglin looked to their surroundings to see the other watchers, but there was no one. He stared back into blue eyes - his greatest misery and chiefest desire.

"Where is everyone?" he hushed lowly.

She brought a finger to her lips, urging him to quietude, but her secret smile said more than words. Maeglin leaned in and kissed her, slowly savoring her mouth. When she placed her arms around his shoulders and arched into him, nails grazing his back, all sense plummeted, and he pulled the slight body closer. Seen by none but the star trails above they were still, lost in the streaming winds and depths of their communion. Bright lights shone in her gaze, and an urgent, helpless longing grew and consumed him as night does the day.

Her hands then urged him deeper still, and the feel, the scent, and infuriating sweetness of her threw him over a taller edge, and into a deeper chasm than the one yawning beneath the very wall they stood on.

Fallen, entwined.

He listened to the unspoken heed of her body, to the reckless enjoyment he saw on her face, in her glazed eyes; how she held him ever tighter, trapped him ever closer, her slender legs strong around his hips.

All those times he had longed for this, having her so close, joining with her, and at this moment she was his and his alone. Maeglin smiled at her as one drowning in gold, hastily shedding his light tunic to feel her fully, holding her to his chest. They danced.

"Tell me again," she spoke into his ear.

A smile, and a whisper as they melted together. He hid his face against her neck.

_I love you. _He must have said it.

A great wail akin to skies being ripped apart thundered beyond the walls, beyond Tumladen, into the mountains, startling them both.

As the pair rose, still holding each other and shivering in their nakedness, they saw black, slithering shapes coiling around the peaks of the mountains, and a sea of metal and brimstone marching its way into the green valley, burning all in its path.

Fire and ash, bending the city and its towers in terror and despair.

The sting of her palm, and unveiled hatred.

"It was _you_!"

Maeglin crumbled, torn and guilty though he knew he had done nothing.

But her gaze was iron. No forgiveness, only contempt. Only fear, and then folk were drawing their last anguished breath around him speared by black blades, towers were falling, and before him was the broken, lifeless body of the king, the crown of garnets crushed beneath black sabatons.

Maeglin ran, ran through smoke and flame to reach her. "Idril, please, tell me what I've done!" he begged, and begged; but she ran, ever farther, ever farther, not once looking back.

A dirk slashed at his face, and he fell to his knees to see the wielder, her eyes alight with dread and hatred.

Strong arms were gripping him, and he was struggling against an unseen foe. He hated. He wanted to kill, he cared little of the outcome.

And then he was plunging into the abyss, and the great chasm swallowed him.

His limbs were shattered, sharp stones his comfort. He looked to the side, with strange clarity noticed the seeping of his blood upon the rocks, and gazed into the eyes of his father.

Maeglin awoke with a start, panting, his skin fevered and flushed. He ran a hand through his damp, disheveled hair, stumbling out of bed towards the windows.

Nothing but the peaceful night reigned above the sleeping city, and the same stars speckled, kindlers in the dark. His heart was wild in his breast. Of nightmares, he knew much. But this, this...

He shuddered, attempting to regain control of his wayward body, and failing miserably. _Cease your sniveling, fool_. The faint whisper of dawn lightened the east. Maeglin touched his cheek, where in his night terror she had struck him, again. And then returned the shameful guilt of what had happened in the library, and how she had held him, her eyes full of pity. Maeglin scowled.

Pity. There was something indeed worse than shame.

He would rather she hated him.

_No_, he shook his head, he would rather spear himself than witness such resent in her eyes in the realms of reality.

The day was planned to begin work on the gate he had devised. He would have to lead, and bury all of this wretched brokenness deeply. None should see the failings of the prince of Gondolin, not while they themselves were in mourning and grieving. Aye, he would bury it, until such time as the night claimed him anew.

* * *

The days wore on as plans of the seventh gate were discussed and orders were given to the city smiths and metalworkers. Maeglin kept his wits about him and the constant work and requests for guidance kept his lurking restlessness at bay, if only for a little while. But that all changed as dusk descended, and he found his mind bereft of the churnings which kept it rooted in reality. He had no notion of where his cousin was, and though he knew Idril was quite busy herself, the prince of Gondolin yearned with a pang of deep misery to hold her again, to hear her voice, even if it wrought nothing but those soothing words of consolation, lined with a new pity he had sensed and began to loathe.

And then a thought had him stop in his tracks, as the elf was headed to his private halls. He had bared his soul to her, told her that he loved her that fateful night.

She never returned the same.

Maeglin resumed his stride, hoping to catch a glimpse and, perhaps Valar willing, a taste and a word. Anything of her would do. Most of all, he wanted to see what his outburst upon their last encounter had done. Did she fear him now? The notion made him feel sick. Did new doubts grip her own mind, as they had his?

As he reached the inner quarters Maeglin rescinded all thought of returning to his rooms and instead searched the council chamber, then the library, and finally even tried the kitchens. He knew Idril was leading the preparations for an upcoming feast in honor of those fallen. Folk had begun to call the recent bloodshed and decimation of their kin a battle of tears unnumbered. It was fitting, he thought gloomily. And Maeglin blessed all the spirits of his shadowed childhood when indeed he caught a wisp of her dress, then saw the daughter of Turgon, just having ended a discussion with the cooks and servants, setting on her way from the kitchens. She had not seen him. Then Maeglin, who for reasons unknown suddenly lost his courage when met with her luminous being, cowered in abject shame and retreated to the shadows of the corridor.

Idril had left the kitchens and her light step resounded on the white marble floors, her expression grave and thoughtful.

"Idril," he called after her, causing her to sharply turn her golden head and acknowledge him.

"Maeglin, Valar be good, you startled me!" the maiden offered, facing him fully. She did not approach.

His eyes were glittering dark stars as Maeglin neared her apprehensively, his expression that of mingled remorse, guilt, and yearning, so much yearning. "How fare you, Idril?" he asked awkwardly, cursing himself for his bland words, when all he really wanted to ask was if she were truly as occupied as she claimed - or simply avoided him, out of fear or aught else. Or perhaps she needed time?

Idril looked to her clasped hands, neither recoiling nor drawing near. But Maeglin did. As rivers to the sea he was drawn to her, against his own will and what was left of his sanity. When he stood before her the maiden met his eyes, and it was all he could do not to fall at her feet, and again ask her forgiveness for his dark moment of insanity in the library. No matter he had already done so at the time, groveling and weeping like an urchin, against any semblance of what a prince and a leader should be.

"Will you join me on the western terrace?" he all but begged into her silence, reading nothing on her face.

A nod of the head was his answer, and Maeglin silently offered his arm. His cousin felt warm and tense as they traversed the arched hallways, and the remnants of a dream interweaved with a nightmare resounded through his mind - pain and horror and elation and dread. Blue eyes full of contempt. He shuddered anew, at which point Idril lifted her gaze to him, but said nothing.

As they reached the lonely terrace now bathed in the red light of a westering sun, Maeglin turned and gently took her by the shoulders.

"Will you tell me how your days have been?"

Idril stared deeply into his sharp obsidian eyes, her gaze flickering to his mouth only momentarily, but enough for him to catch it. Ruinous desire stirred within him.

"I have been well," and then her hand came splayed over his chest. Again, emotionless. Toneless. Void of conviction. False.

Ash drowned his words. "I missed you," he said either way, failing to keep the frenzy out of his voice now they were alone.

Maeglin saw her eyes closing, and his restless mood blackened. Her other hand came to his chest.

"Maeglin, I cherish you-"

"I _love_ you," he interrupted, unable to hear whatever she was wont to say. And then his hands were drawing her in. "I would give my life to see you happy, and I am sorry, I am so very sorry, I would never... Idril, it will never happen again," he said with deep regret. "I promise."

Fingers were lightly placed to his lips. "I know. I know, Maeglin. I needed... I needed time, to ponder."

When Idril would not meet his eyes an abyss parted within him, and it felt as though her words were slowly ushering him thence. Maeglin swallowed an empty breath, his own voice struggling in his throat. "To ponder on what?"

Idril lowered her gaze further, looking to her hands. "On this. Us."

"So you do regret it-," his words cut harsher than intended, and a wretched shiver caused his fingers to tremble and dig into her shoulders.

"No!" Idril interrupted, her eyes snapping to his, before adding, softer, "No." Seeing the utter misery on his falling features she took his face in her palms, and before either knew it she was kissing his mouth.

Relief washed over him. His arms fretfully wound around Idril and then she was his lifeline again, and they were falling against each other in a confusion of arms and breathless sighs. The elf met her with all the longing in his marrow and the fury of his need, gripping and pulling her deeper into the caging confines of his hold.

The deafening sound of something shattering caused his eyes to snap open and as if burnt, Idril suddenly removed herself from him. Maeglin lifted his gaze to behold a stiff figure not far from them, pausing on the stairs, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Mercion gaped at them with an expression of utter horror, the glass pitcher he had been holding in shards at his feet. Wine spilled akin to blood over the floor.

Saying not a word, the elf turned on his heel, slowly, swaying as though an axe had cloven him in two.

"Mercion!" Idril cried, rushing after her friend. A fast hold gripped her only briefly before she was released.

She caught Mercion by the arm as she reached him, looking pleadingly into his lorn eyes. Mercion stared into her own a moment before his gaze became steel, and a disgusted mien marred his stricken face. His eyes went to the frozen figure of Maeglin, then back to her. He roughly pulled his arm from her light hold and charged away without a word, disappearing from view.

A dark shadow whirled past her, and Idril late realized it was Maeglin.

"Maeglin, do not!" she called after him, but he only seemed to walk faster, and then he was gone.

* * *

He searched for Mercion but the path was empty, the other elf seemingly having fled with speed uncounted for. Panting and restless, Maeglin turned and was met with Idril, nearly crashing into each other as the daughter of Turgon ran towards him.

"Maeglin, leave him to his own, please," Idril said swiftly, her eyes wide as she grasped his black tunic.

She saw brief hurt smoldering in obsidian depths. "He is gone either way," Maeglin said coldly. Her reaction, the way she had fled towards Mercion, the look of apology in her eyes had drowned his mood and drenched his mind in a thick fog of tension. And unsought for, his resentment and dormant jealousy of the other elf brimmed to the fore despite his attempt at control. And he fell, reason burned to nothing by a raging, molten stream. He took Idril by the arm. "Why does this distress you so?" he gripped her other arm. "Tell me Idril, are you ashamed?" Maeglin asked as he brought her closer, black eyes boring into widened blue. But before Idril could speak he turned his head to the fading twilight. "Of course you are," he said in a voice so hollow Idril winced, his grip loosening.

"That is not true," Idril raised a hand, tilting his chin to her. "Maeglin, he... he-"

"I know his thoughts of you entail much more than friendship," his own words felt akin to javelins being thrust into him by fine, slender but determined hands. "But my question is, why do _you_ care so much for his sensibilities?" His grip grew tighter.

Idril felt a sliver of unease, and the look in his eyes was beginning to unsettle her. "Because he is my friend, my _childhood_ friend, and I would not have him suffer needlessly," she spoke into his darkening stare.

"Then go to him," Maeglin spat, his hands falling from her arms as the elf turned to walk away, the dark stirring become stifling in his breast.

But Idril held him fast, moving before him, seeing how her cousin avoided meeting her eyes. "It is better to leave him," she said reassuringly, "His temper must recede. It would be folly to attempt reason now. But Maeglin- will you look at me?"

He reluctantly did so, felt her palm on his cheek. It was soft silk, but then his nightmare resurfaced, where the mark of her hand stung, and the hatred in her eyes burned. Against his will Maeglin mellowed, nearly leaning into her touch.

"Surely," Idril followed, "you can imagine how unexpected this would be to any outsider, seeing us-"

"Then let it not be so any longer," said Maeglin. "Let it not be a secret," and the lights in his eyes flared, causing Idril to retrieve her hand. Maeglin took her by the shoulders, his face determined. "Allow me to court you openly. Let us have a betrothal. Let us _wed_, and cease this travesty, do things properly. I want to do right by you, Idril. You know how I feel, you know it is true."

Idril bit her lip. "And _you_ know it is not as simple. And my father-"

"Yes we are kin," Maeglin interrupted impatiently. "This indeed brings strife and a level of difficulty, but these shackles of custom come as a limitation brought about by your Noldorin laws. You would be astonished to find how amenable my father's people would be to this. I cannot adhere to Noldor principles fully any more than I can cease needing you. Allow me to speak to the king. Let me ask for your hand, before all to see," he continued earnestly. "Bride price and all."

Silence. Idril regarded him for so long Maeglin felt the wall barring his darkness begin to shake and crumble, stone by heavy stone. "Idril, will you consent to marry me?" the elf asked before he lost his nerve.

She was not looking at him anymore, her gaze set on the dying sun. "Maeglin, this feels rushed, I think, I think we need more time-"

"More time?" his shrill words startled her, and Idril looked back to see the buds of anger on his pale face. "Look at me, Idril," Maeglin smiled mirthlessly. "I am asking for your hand, despite all the shame, gossip, shock, and wariness I know it would bring. But I care not, not if Eru himself would bear down upon us in his fury. No, Idril, _I_ do not need more time. I have waited enough," he ended his case in a softer tone.

Her palm was cupping his cheek. "Maeglin, do you not see you are not well?" It had to be said.

Of course. She fretted, for his state of mind and that which led to what happened in the library. Maeglin cursed his weakened self. "I promised,-" he tried.

"You did. And I know you meant it. But you know I speak true," Idril hedged, though she felt his heavy defeat, his pained loneliness wrapping around them both like a veil. "Our people are in mourning. If nothing else, _they_ need more time. Let us allow this to pass. Let us be patient. Please," and she leveled him with a gaze that rendered him wordless in its desperation.

Maeglin slowly took a step back, removing himself from her touch. "As you consider," and he brought his hand to his chest, lowering his head in a formal farewell before turning to leave.

"Maeglin-" but the remainder of her words caught, and Idril allowed him to pace away, a blackened shadow in the settling night.

* * *

The feast to honor the lost during the recent battle against Morgoth had commenced, with laden tables strewn across the palace halls and squares for all to partake in silent communion. There was little merriment to be had, the Gondolindrim reminiscing on joyful memories of ones they held dear, while wondering where their souls lingered, unhoused, and mourning them. Many of the exiles felt this way, and thought forgiveness by the Powers was a long and weary road to travel, if at all, its destination out of sight for most.

Maeglin joined as well owed to his status though he would much rather have stood locked away in the shadows of his chambers, to mull over the words he and Idril shared the other day. Their eyes met briefly across the room and they nodded in recognition of each other, but the elf did not approach her for the remainder of the night. Dared not. The only closeness they shared was brought about by the dinner seating arrangements, where at the table of the king joined high lords of the different houses of Gondolin as well as the royal family. Maeglin was sat on the left side of the table, facing those of the House of Rog. He looked not in the least discomfited when Mercion took a heavy seat not far across from him.

His dark eyes roamed over the rest of their table companions, seeing Idril as she neared arrayed in blue and her own golden hair. Duilin, the lord of the House of the Swallow, rose and held her chair for her.

Their gazes locked, but neither sketched any emotion, let alone a smile. Maeglin could not shake the poisonous sense of having been denied, hammering away at his chest. And though he knew Idril held no blame, doubt seeped and spiraled into him as a steady brook, forcing its way down with slow agony and muted despair. But all he had to do was wait. And wait, he could. He would trust her. He would try.

Quiet conversation bloomed as the dining lords and ladies began discussing various aspects of running the city after the war, or the impending seasonal changes they would need to prepare for. Among the murmurs, his eyes ever so often strayed to Idril, finding her smiling but he saw the strain, finding her unable to look most in the eye. Not once did she look his way.

Maeglin caught the middle of the latest topic at hand.

"It is fortunate for those of us who have close kin left standing," one elf-lord was saying, one with deep golden hair and a steady, unnervingly bright gaze.

Rog, the one being spoken to, nodded and offered his own view. "If only all were thus blessed. We have many mourning their bonded, unsure of where to go, where to turn. You have seen it yourself. I dread the fading," he added with a sigh, and heads across the table lowered knowingly.

Mercion, who had been silent until then at the right of Rog his lord, took a great swig of wine, the goblet clinking heavily onto the table and spluttering red droplets over the white tablecloth.

"Aye, kin is important. The _most_ important." The two elf lords looked at him in askance, but his eyes glistened strangely as Mercion turned his head towards the daughter of Turgon. "Would you not agree, princess Idril?" his grim, wooden face was hard on Idril, whose face had turned ashen. He had drunk too much, it was visible in the slight waver of his movement when he reached for the carafe anew.

Mercion then grinned predatorily and with a smile that did not reach his eyes, he turned to a stern-faced Maeglin, who lounged to one side with his elbow propped against the armrest of his chair. He had gone only slightly paler. Black eyes bore into him like swords.

"Of course Mercion. It is all we have," Idril's soft voice reached the elf.

A bark of laughter crossed the table, causing a few to exchange confused looks. One elf placed a wary hand on his arm, which Mercion shrugged off.

"And would you agree, prince Maeglin?" his eyes turned on Maeglin. "I am sure you are one to fervently _appreciate_ what kinship has to offer," Mercion added rudely, uncaring of the black fire in that stare.

Untouched, Mercion leaned back in his chair. "Strange tidings and stranger things indeed, are to be found in the Stone of Song lately." His eyes never left Idril as he spoke, noting her unease. He smiled darkly, and trained his attention on the food the table had been lavished with, leaving two pairs of eyes gazing worriedly at each other from across the table.

Sometime after, when the meal finished and all were deep in mild conversation, Idril and Maeglin exchanged a look. One pleaded, the other stood blank and cold. Then, seeing Mercion walk on uneven steps towards the outside terrace, his head bowed and features fallen, Idril slowly rose from her chair without another glance and followed.

Maeglin downed his wine and immediately refilled his goblet. An all too familiar foe threatened to consume. _Be still_. And so he was, his eyes on the daughter of Turgon until Idril disappeared from his sight.


End file.
